


Home for the Holidays

by red_river



Series: The Other Guardian [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Fluff, Gen, Horror, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-03 00:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 120,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_river/pseuds/red_river
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas in Colorado, and the Winchesters are on a case, hunting for holy handbells that are causing trouble in the city at the foot of the mountains. This time they've got their guardian angel with them full-time. With every day, Sam and Cas grow closer; but dark forces are rising, and soon it's a race to collect the bells before the powers of Hell tear them apart forever. Cas/Sam; funny Dean.  Part of the Other Guardian 'verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. November 30

**Author's Note:**

> This is the next story in a mild AU/canon divergence series called The Other Guardian 'verse. In brief: after Dean is raised from Hell by Castiel, an entire year passes before the Lilith rises and the seals start to break. During that time, Castiel is assigned to watch over the Winchesters, and finds himself growing closer and closer to Sam.
> 
> This story follows "Thanksgiving at Bobby's" and "Darkness Rising." While it's not completely necessary to read those stories first, they do inform this one. This story will be updated every day until December 25th (or possibly 26th if I come up with an epilogue.
> 
> Notes: Cas and Sam centric, slash and pre-slash. Plenty of Dean too, mostly in a humorous capacity. Please enjoy.

 

**Home for the Holidays**

**Prologue: November 30**

The billboard looming outside the roadside diner window said _Honk for Jesus_. The words in red block letters took up half of the sign, while the other half was occupied by Jesus from the shoulders up, one of those images Sam had seen so many times he almost didn't even take it in anymore. He might not have noticed the billboard at all, since spending half of his life in the car meant he'd gotten pretty good at ignoring anything except the yellow stripe in the middle of the road, if it weren't for the fact that where they were in Oklahoma, so far east that one edge of the diner parking lot was probably touching the Arkansas state line, was apparently very pro-Jesus, and every one of the countless eighteen-wheelers rolling by on Interstate 40 sounded its air horn, splitting the atmosphere of the diner with a piercing blast. None of the rest of the lunch crowd seemed to care, but Sam was having a hard time finding his appetite—though that might have had at least something to do with what was on his plate, too.

"What crawled up your ass and died?"

Sam glanced up from his sandwich, glaring across the worn Formica tabletop at his brother. Dean's hands were full of a mound of barbeque beef on a roll the size of a cantaloupe, and a few pieces of brisket stuck out of the corners of his mouth, accompanied by a smear of barbeque sauce. Sam grimaced and set his own sandwich back on his plate.

"Nothing. I've just never had a BLT before that was eighty percent bacon."

Dean made a face at him, his words garbled as he chewed with his mouth open. "What are you talking about? That's the only reason that crap even looks edible." He paused long enough to take a swig of Coke out of his tall glass, then went back to work on the barbeque, narrowing his eyes at Sam over the sesame seed bun. "Quit whining and chow down. You were the one who wanted to stop for lunch in the first place."

Sam wiped his hands carefully on his paper napkin. "Yeah, I know, but—"

"More coffee, honey?"

Sam cut himself off and looked up into the cheerful face of the waitress, a chubby middle-aged woman with curls of red hair bouncing around her face. She looked like every other diner waitress who'd ever refilled his coffee cup, with the exception of the brown felt reindeer horns poking up from her head, the tiny bells on the end of each prong jingling every time she moved. For those, if nothing else, Sam dredged up a smile as he raised his porcelain mug.

"Sure. Thanks."

"Welcome," she told him, the word clipped by her heavy accent. She tipped a generous slosh of coffee into the mug and then dumped a handful of creamers onto the table, fishing for something in the pocket of her apron. "And here's a little something extra," she told Sam in a whisper as she slid two red-and-white striped peppermints out of her pocket and set them next to his plate with a click. She winked at both Winchesters before straightening again, the bells on her reindeer horns tinkling gleefully. "Tis the season!" she called as she moved off, jiggling the coffee pot in a wave. Another blaring air horn punctuated the sentiment.

Sam blinked after her, then turned back to his brother, eyebrows raised. He'd expected a snarky comment from Dean, probably something along the lines of watching out for cougars or an offer that they could stick around another day, if Sam wanted to close the deal for once—but Dean just looked unusually gloomy, watching the waitress retreat with narrowed eyes. He chewed twice more and then swallowed hard, setting his monstrosity of a sandwich down for a minute so that he could lick barbeque sauce from his fingers.

"I tell you, Sammy," Dean started, "between Mrs. Clause over there and the super-size pinup outside I am sick of this holiday already."

Sam glanced out the window long enough to verify that the only thing Dean could possibly be referring to was the billboard Jesus, his heart and the crown of thorns in his hands; then he turned back to the table, his eyebrows drawn together. "What holiday? Christmas?" he asked.

Dean gave him a look, wheedling a flake of beef out of his teeth with his thumbnail. "No, Sam. Hanukkah. All the dreidels in here are getting on my nerves."

Sam glanced over his brother's shoulder at the lines of tinsel and Christmas lights dangling from the ceiling of the entire diner. The radio by the cash register seemed to be crooning "Silver Bells." He thought about reminding Dean that sarcasm was the lowest form of humor, but since that was certain to earn him nothing but another snarky comment, he kept his mouth shut in the end, just catching Dean's gaze and raising his eyebrows. Dean rolled his eyes.

"It's ridiculous. Look at this place. It's not even December yet."

Sam shrugged under his brown jacket, burning his mouth on a sip of his bitter coffee. "It's November 30th," he offered.

Dean mouthed a few unholy words at him before hefting his barbeque sandwich again and stuffing it into his mouth. "Thank you, Sam. Real helpful," he spit out around a mouthful of brisket. Sam wrinkled his nose as a few specks of barbeque sauce hit the table.

"Dude, what's your problem with Christmas?" he asked. He almost added that Dean had seemed pretty okay with the holiday before—but _before_ was always a touchy subject, and he bit his tongue, burying the unsaid words in another sip of boiling coffee. He wasn't using those taste buds anyway.

Dean slipped his sandwich into one hand so that he could point the other at Sam, his oily barbeque fingers swinging out over the table. "Okay, first of all, it's too close to Thanksgiving. We just had a freaking holiday. Can't we have, like, one month off?"

Sam rolled his sip of coffee around in his mouth, carefully not saying anything. They had spent Thanksgiving at Bobby's house, stuffing themselves and letting the older hunter gripe at them about drinking too much and kicking their feet up on his books (both things that were really more Dean's crimes than Sam's). Sam had honestly hoped they could hang around in the neighborhood of South Dakota for the season, dropping in at Bobby's for a few days here and there and occasionally sleeping somewhere besides roadside hotels where the walls shook every time a semi-truck rolled by. But as usual, Dean was restless almost as soon as the leftovers were gone, and he'd dragged them down to Arkansas chasing rumors of a ghost sighting that turned out to be nothing but smoke—just another false lead bookended by bad diner food and sleeping in the parking lot of a state fishing area, his long legs crunched up in the Impala's back seat. Dean always seemed eager to be gone from Bobby's—from everywhere, really—as fast as possible. Sometimes Sam wished they could just hold still long enough to catch their breath, let alone take a real break. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept in the same bed more than four nights in a row.

Dean had gone on, waving his sandwich around to emphasize whatever point he was making. Sam hadn't been listening, but when he tuned back in he didn't really feel like he'd missed anything.

"Plus, I don't get it. Christmas is Jesus's birthday or whatever, right?" Dean was saying, sweeping his empty hand out to indicate the diner at large. "So why do these morbid sons of bitches have like fifty crucifixes hung up in here?"

Sam glanced around at the walls, surprised to find that Dean had only exaggerated by a factor of five or so—there were an abnormal number of crosses nailed up, especially for a restaurant, and a few of them had been encircled by wreaths of fake evergreen, which was a little weird and made them look sort of like bull's-eyes. Sam sort of grimaced and turned back to face his brother, who was giving him a _told you so_ look over an overflowing mouthful of beef. Dean jerked his head once at the foot-long wooden crucifix decorating the door to the kitchen.

"Icons of your death—hell of a way to celebrate a birthday. But hey, maybe that's just me. I wouldn't want people honking at me all day, either."

Sam glanced out the window at the billboard again. He had a feeling it hadn't actually been ordained by Heaven, not least because none of the angels they'd met seemed to have a really firm grasp on modern advertising—but in the end, he let that go, turning back to Dean and spinning a canister of cream around with his fingertip.

"You know, it's not really. His birthday."

Dean had been hoisting his sandwich to take another massive bite, but he stopped at Sam's words, staring at his brother through narrowed green eyes. "Say what now?" he asked.

Sam let go of the creamer, raising a hand to rub the back of his neck. "Jesus wasn't born in December. I mean, like, historically. He was born in spring. Christmas is when we celebrate it, but…" He trailed off as he registered the look of utter confusion on Dean's face, apparently so debilitating that he had to put his sandwich all the way down on his plate.

"What?" Dean demanded again. His expression was phasing out of confusion and into disbelief, and Sam found he was struggling with a little disbelief himself, wondering how Dean had managed to live almost thirty years without stumbling over this fact.

"It's in the gospels, Dean," Sam told him, feeling inexplicably like he had to cite his source. "It's not a secret. It's thought they moved the holiday into December so that it lined up with pagan solstice celebrations, so that it was easier to convert people to Christianity."

Dean's face contorted, disbelief giving way as usual to anger. "They? They who?"

"Uh… I don't know. Early Christians?" Sam guessed. "The holy Roman emperors? Whoever was converting pagans."

Sam suddenly came back to himself enough to remember that he was in a Southern café surrounded by crucifixes and overseen by Jesus on a huge billboard, and wondered if demystifying Christmas was really a safe topic of conversation in a place like this. Dean didn't seem to have the same concerns, if the volume of his voice was any indication.

"The hell are you saying? That's not…" Sam tipped his head, waiting, and Dean trailed off to run his hand across his mouth, leaving a smear of barbeque sauce from his nose to his ear. "What about the songs?" Dean asked after a moment, breaking Sam's staring contest with his brother's napkin. Sam rubbed a hand over his cheek unconsciously.

"What songs?"

Dean jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the droning radio. "All the Christmas songs, you know. The virgin who got knocked up and the three wise guys."

Sam rubbed a hand across his forehead, wondering not for the first time how it was that Dean had qualified as someone who deserved his own personal guardian angel. "The three wise men," he said, hoping none of the locals in the surrounding booths had heard Dean, or at least that none of them had guns in their pickups. "The wise guys are mobsters."

"Oh, yeah." Dean picked up his sandwich again, grinning before he sunk his teeth into another huge bite of brisket. "That would have been a way cooler story."

"You would think that," Sam sighed. But his response got lost in the familiar rustle of settling wings, and Sam whipped his head up to find Castiel standing next to their table, looking as usual slightly harried and more than a little windswept.

"I have to speak with you," the angel began without preamble, glancing back and forth between the Winchesters. Dean snorted around his current mouthful.

"Oh hell no. You people are liars and propagandists, and you saddled us with Bing Crosby and twenty-four-hour _A Christmas Story_ marathons for no fucking reason. I'm not talking to you right now. Talk to Sam."

Sam sent his brother a look. Castiel's eyes narrowed sharply in confusion as he turned awkwardly to Sam, his attention lingering on the barbeque sauce sliding down Dean's wrist and under the sleeve of his coat—but then his gaze locked with Sam's and his expression relaxed a little, the skin around his eyes crinkling slightly as if to suggest the smallest of smiles.

"Hello, Sam."

Sam's heart buckled in his chest—but he was pretty much used to that by now, and he managed to restrain himself to a small smile in return, unconsciously reaching up to slip his hair back behind his ear. "Hey, Cas. Did you need something?"

"Yes," Castiel told him. He edged forward the final step until his trench coat was brushing the table, and then bent down partway, his back stiff as he glanced furtively over his shoulder at the lunchtime diner crowd. "It's important that I speak to you immediately about… bells."

Sam blinked, and even Dean detached his sandwich from his face for a moment to give their resident angel a _what the fuck_ once-over, licking barbeque sauce slowly from his lips. "I'm sorry, did you say _bells_?" Dean asked. Castiel nodded shortly.

"Yes. Golden handbells. Specifically a set of twelve that disappeared from the Church of the Sacred Messiah on Christmas in 1910."

Dean lifted his eyebrows and leaned back in his seat, shooting Sam a look that said his brain was jammed and he was going to need a minute to process that. Sam blinked back at him and then up at Castiel. He realized suddenly that the waitress was eyeing them from the counter near the kitchen, her reindeer horns tipped quizzically as she puzzled at the new arrival looming over their table, and Sam winced, wondering if it was too late to head her off.

"Uh, you should probably sit down, Cas." He gave Dean a purposeful look, because his backpack was already taking up part of the bench on his side and Sam never fit that well in booths anyway—but Dean just gave him a dickish smile in return, raising his eyebrows and working a mouthful of his sandwich like he had no idea what Sam was trying to imply. In the end Sam had no choice but to scoot as far toward the window as he could manage, pulling his backpack into his lap and blinking _you're an asshole_ at Dean in brother code. "Here, Cas. You can sit with me. You, um—you want a sandwich?"

"Thank you, Sam," Castiel said as he sunk into the booth, his knee brushing against Sam's as he settled into the vinyl bench. He examined the BLT from a distance for a moment and then slid the plate over to rest in front of him, lifting one triangle bursting with bacon into his hands. "Though I do not require nourishment."

Even as he said it, though, he bit off one corner of the sandwich and chewed thoughtfully, his eyes fixed on the saltshaker like he was recording every flavor, and Sam couldn't help the little smile that flitted across his face. Eleven months of knowing Castiel had been enough to figure out that whether he needed it or not, the angel seemed to like eating, and it hadn't escaped Sam's notice that Castiel would try almost anything Sam offered him. He wasn't making it out to mean something it didn't, but he'd noticed all the same.

Dean pulled his knee up so that it banged the table, and Sam jumped, his gaze snapping from Castiel to his brother, who was giving him a seriously dirty look. Sam blinked and made a valiant effort to reel his mind back to more important things.

"Um…so, what's the deal with the bells?" he asked, pushing a hand through his hair. The look Castiel gave him reminded Sam slightly too late that the angel still didn't really respond well to open-ended questions, and he hurried to rephrase, taking another sip of the coffee that had at least retreated to lukewarm. "You said that they… they disappeared like a hundred years ago? What happened to them?"

"It isn't known," Castiel said, taking another small bite of Sam's sandwich. "Very little about them is. But they are causing a considerable stir in Heaven."

"What's got the halo squad all hot and bothered over some bells?" Dean asked, the question even more irreverent, if that were possible, for the gob of barbeque that tumbled out of his mouth and landed with a splat on his plate. If any of Sam's appetite had been left intact, that would have been the death knell. Castiel barely seemed to notice, preoccupied with his own sandwich.

"They appeared in the dream of a prophet," he told them flatly.

Sam's brain did a little internal reset, and when it came back online he glanced over at Dean to make sure he'd heard that right. Dean had stopped chewing right in the middle of a bite and part of the roll was still sticking out of the corner of his mouth. "Hold the phone," Dean said, his face darkening with confusion as he leaned over the table toward Castiel. "We talking, like, a _prophet_ prophet?"

Castiel nodded around the last of Sam's crust. "Her name is Rachael Loughton."

Sam was already digging his laptop out of his backpack, pausing only to wipe up Dean's spatter of barbeque sauce before he flipped it open on the table. While the satellite card searched for service, he looked up again to find Dean and Cas exchanging stares over their plates, Dean's fairly peeved and Castiel's mostly blank. At last Dean rolled his eyes.

"Sure. What the hell. Angels are real, why not prophets, too?"

Castiel tipped his head to one side, a careless frown touching his lips. "Why do you resist the truth of the Lord, Dean?"

"Oh, you are not gonna go all Jehovah's Witness on me," Dean warned him. "Not after I just had my eyes opened about your boy out there."

Sam had a feeling he knew how that conversation was going to go, if they got into it. Fortunately his search results materialized just as Cas was turning to look out the window, and Sam sat up straighter in his seat, his eyes racing over the entries. "Here we go. Got it. Rachael Loughton…" He clicked on the second link down, what looked like a blog called The Word—but as soon as the page popped up, he slumped against the bench, working his touchpad mouse up toward the Back button. "Hang on, that can't be right…"

"No, that's her," Castiel told him. He leaned into Sam's shoulder to get a better look at the computer screen, apparently totally unaware of his hair brushing Sam's cheek as he tipped his head. "This is where she records her revelations."

"Hey, let me see," Dean demanded.

Reluctantly, Sam spun his laptop around. Then he watched the same sort of confusion and horror dawn on Dean's face as he'd been feeling just a second before, as Dean took in the garishly pink theme accented here and there with pictures of shimmering nail polish and little white hearts that chased his cursor across the screen. The sparkling silver title along the top of the page read, _The Word: Beauty Tips, Dating Advice and Revelations from the Girl Who Heard It First—From God._ Dean choked on his brisket.

"You have got to be shitting me."

"Open the most recent revelation," Castiel instructed, ignoring him.

Sam was still halfway convinced that this was all a massive misunderstanding, but he did as Castiel asked all the same, turning his laptop back to face him and scrolling down until the most recent post filled the window. He leaned toward the screen, squinting to read the silver letters against the pink background.

"Okay. This one was posted today, six hours ago… it's called 'Buried Treasure.'" Dean snorted and Sam shot him a quick look before refocusing on the blog. "Let's see… 'Had another dream last night, ladies, and wanted to share with you right away. This one goes out to Kelly29, whose boyfriend broke her heart just two days before her birthday'…" Sam trailed off and glanced over at Castiel to make sure he wasn't barking up the wrong tree—but the angel seemed serene, just waiting, so Sam shook his head and went back to it, scrolling a little farther down the page. "It goes on like that for a while… okay, here. 'In the dream I was standing on the foundations of this really old church that had been torn down. There was a hole down in the ground, and in it was a whole set of beautiful gold bells—the kind you ring in a bell choir. Even though the place was a total mess, the bells were as perfect and clean as if they'd just come off the shelf at Tiffany's."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Dean asked. He swiped a hand across his mouth, but only succeeded in spreading the barbeque sauce farther, so that by now it looked less like he needed a napkin and more like he needed a close shave. Sam glanced at his brother and then back down, eyebrows raised.

"Well, if you believe the prophet… 'I think the meaning behind this dream is pretty clear for Kelly, and the rest of you girls out there reeling from a bad boy who left your fragile heart in pieces. Even in the wreckage of a bad relationship, you've got to keep digging, because you just might find something beautiful underneath. God's crossing His fingers for you, ladies. Just trust fate and let the magic of the season happen!'"

Dean cocked his head to one side, taking another gulp of Coke and smearing barbeque fingerprints down the side of the glass. "Okay, not bad advice for all those desperate girls out there—like you, Sam," he added with a grin, and Sam shot him a look, wishing Dean weren't so damn predictable that it actually would have been weirder _not_ to get an insult there. Dean ignored him and turned back to Castiel. "But what the hell's got your feathers all ruffled? Some girl dreamt about bells—big whoop. I don't see how that was worth interrupting my lunch."

Castiel's eyes narrowed. He leaned forward slightly over the table, and Sam felt the hairs on his arm prickling, something about the intensity of Castiel's stare reminding him all of a sudden that this wasn't just a friend sharing his BLT, but an extremely powerful being whose patience Dean seemed intent on trying. If Dean got fried one of these days, Sam was going to be hard-pressed to be surprised. For now, though, Castiel settled for a glare, his rigid posture easing as he gradually settled back against the red vinyl bench.

"The dreams of prophets are never accidents. Even angels aren't privy to them before they're revealed. Occasionally a saint or a martyr, or another extremely pious soul, can influence the dreams of prophets, but most often they come directly from God." Castiel held Dean's eyes for another moment, then turned aside to speak to Sam, though the crush of the crowded bench seat meant he was basically speaking into Sam's chin. It made Sam unreasonably anxious, and he rubbed his hands against his jeans as the angel went on. "The church is real, as are the bells. As soon as the prophet recorded her revelation, an angel was dispatched to retrieve them from beneath the church, which is set to be demolished at the end of the month. But the bells were gone. All except these," Castiel finished, reaching into the front pockets of his trench coat.

When he withdrew his hands, he cradled a glimmering golden handbell in each palm, the worn leather handles flopping against his wrists. Sam had seen handbells before, and he knew that certain bells in a set could be huge, the lowest tones sometimes so big they had to be rung with both hands—but these ones were small, and the body of each bell fit easily in the angel's hand, making them the higher bells. Sam was surprised to see they were both completely free of tarnish, like the prophet had said, even though they were over a century old. He reached out to skim a finger down the lip of the smaller bell, tracing the gentle curve that smoothed into the hollow without so much as a rim to distort the shape—but almost before he made contact with the cold metal, Castiel's open fingers had folded down over his, holding them firmly in place. Sam felt a jolt race down his spine as Castiel caught his eyes and then squeezed his hand once.

"Be careful," he warned, his voice low. "There's a chance they're dangerous."

Dean had been reaching for the other bell, but he drew back at Castiel's words—which was just as well, in Sam's opinion, because Dean's fingers were still coated in barbeque sauce. Sam slipped his own fingers out from under Castiel's and pulled his hands back into his lap, giving the bells a wary look. "Dangerous how?" he asked.

Castiel frowned down at the bells in his hands, tilting them so that the light slid across their polished surfaces. "They have come in contact with very powerful demonic energy."

Dean seemed to have decided the conversation was overrated, if the way he rolled his eyes was any indication. He picked up his sandwich again and tore a huge chunk out of the middle, like he was planning to finish the rest of it in three bites. "So what?" he asked through his mouthful. "We've dealt with demons before."

"Not like this," Castiel told him. "The demonic energy surrounding these bells is so strong it's attracting other negative energy to them."

"Like a poltergeist?" Sam posited. Dean looked confused as hell, but Castiel nodded, slipping the bells carefully back into his pockets.

"Yes. Which is why I've been assigned to stay close while you work this case."

"Hold up a sec," Dean garbled out, and Sam resisted the urge to kick his brother under the table because Dean almost seemed to make a point of talking with his mouth as full as possible. "Nobody said anything about us being involved. All of this sounds like _your problem_ to me."

"Dean," Sam snapped. Dean never looked ashamed but he did shut up at least, and Sam rolled his eyes before turning back to Castiel, trying to find a less asshole-ish way of saying basically the same thing. "Look, we'll help however we can, Cas, obviously. You've done… so much for us." Dean made a face at that, but Sam ignored him, tapping his fingers against the Formica. "But if these bells are that dangerous, why not just have a whole battalion, or… squadron… um, flock?" Sam cut himself off and winced at his tumble of words, especially the last one—but Cas was still watching him, waiting for the rest of the question, so he did his best to ignore the choking cackle of the gluttonous hyena across the table as he tried again. "Why not have a bunch of angels just search the city for these bells and bless them or neutralize them or… whatever?"

Castiel's brows drew together, the thoughtful look Sam had learned to recognize meant the angel was trying to find the words for something they'd probably never understand. "It isn't that simple, Sam," he said, looking almost apologetic. "The vision of the bells was conveyed by a prophet, and prophecies are not intended for angels. These bells were scattered by a human hand, not an angel or a demon. The prophecy means they're meant to be found by humans as well. Prophecies are not to be disregarded lightly."

From the other side of the table, Dean snorted around the last bite of his sandwich. "Sounds like some red tape bullshit to make us do your dirty work."

"Do you think I would ask you to do something this dangerous if I had a choice?" Castiel challenged. All of a sudden he seemed angry again, and his voice was lower than before, all of his words coarse like emotion made them harder to ground out, each one a little rougher around the edges. "My hands are tied, Dean. Too much angelic intervention is only going to draw the attention of whatever demonic presence has gotten close to these bells, and that will only make things more dangerous." For a second Castiel fixed his gaze on Sam instead, and Sam found his mouth suddenly dry, unable to say anything as he stared back into those intense blue eyes. Then the angel deflated and sank back into his seat, his features smoothing but his back still ramrod straight as his gaze settled on the crumbs on Sam's plate. "This is what I can tell you," Castiel began again, more softly. "The bells will not have been taken out of the city. Their locations are hidden from me and all angels, but they should resonate with the two bells the angels were able to recover, if you get close to them."

"You want to be a little vaguer about that?" Dean groused.

Castiel's sharp eyes snapped up to Dean's face again. "I can't tell you what I don't know. But if you carry these bells with you, the lost bells should make themselves known to you, and you'll be able to collect them."

Sam felt his forehead furrowing a little at that, but as usual Dean beat him to it, sucking the last drop of barbeque sauce from his thumb before finally swiping his hands across his paper napkin. "Okay, so what happens then, exactly? Some badass demon mojo rises up out of the bells and kicks our tails? I hate to break it to you, Cas, but this boat has a couple big holes in it."

"That's why I'll be around," Castiel said, in a tone that brooked no argument. Sam thought Dean probably would have tried anyway if the angel hadn't turned away from him at that moment to face Sam again, reaching into his pocket once more and emerging this time with a crumpled scrap of paper. "Accommodations have been prepared for the duration of your mission. This is the address."

Sam took the paper from Castiel, glancing at it long enough to decipher the last line as Boulder, Colorado. Then he looked up and met the angel's eyes, giving Castiel a small smile that he hoped was reassuring. "Okay. We'll be there, Cas. Soon as we can."

Castiel nodded once. "I'll expect you tomorrow." There was a moment when Sam thought he would just disappear, like he had in the beginning—but instead Castiel hesitated and glanced up at him, meeting Sam's gaze for a moment as that same small crinkle settled around his eyes. "Goodbye, Sam," he said. Then he was gone, and all Sam was left with was the crumpled address flickering in his hand, and the rustle of those invisible, intangible wings stuttering the heartbeat in his chest. Sam tightened his fingers around that little scrap of paper.

Dean chugged the last of his soda and then pulled the glass down, clicking an ice cube back and forth between his teeth. "Pushy bastard," he grumbled. "I never even agreed to do this. We should just leave him hanging—let him deal with his own crap for once."

This time, Sam didn't hesitate to kick him under the table.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Thanks so much for reading. Look for the next chapter tomorrow.


	2. December 1

**December 1  
**

Dean had had his doubts about this bell crap from the second Cas landed next to their table. He'd dealt with enough angels and demons by now to know he had no interest in being stuck between them, and whatever Castiel said about the prophet from Seventeen Magazine, Dean still felt like somebody somewhere in this debacle had at least one screw loose. Maybe it was Dean himself, for actually driving thirteen hours through three states because a bossy angel with bacon breath told him to.

But all the little doubts bouncing around his brain like Ping-Pong balls turned into one gigantic _what the fuck_ when he put the car in park in front of a blue two-story house decked out in full suburban style, from the white mailbox crisply labeled _The Gerbers_ to the yuppie deck with wrought iron railings perched on top of the two-car garage. Boulder had apparently had a massive snowfall at the beginning of the week, and most of it was still hanging around; it was about up to the knees of the army of Christmas lawn ornaments that had invaded the front lawn, featuring an unsettling herd of faceless light-up deer and a truly disturbing inflatable snowman that was probably six feet tall, grinning at them under a fat black hat. Dean eased the Impala into the driveway and parked but left the car running, in case they needed to make a quick exit.

"Are you sure this is the address?" he asked.

Sam had been kind of a bitch all morning, alternating between preoccupied silence and telling Dean off whenever he tried to suggest that they plead out on this one and let Cas sic these bells on someone else—but for once, Sam seemed to be on the same page he was, peering up at the house through the passenger window.

"3016 Briarwood Drive," he said, waving the scrap of paper with the address between two fingers.

Dean craned his head to look out the back window and frowned at the rest of the snow-covered cul-de-sac spread out behind them. "I don't get it, Sam. Where's the sleazy motel?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't think we're staying in a sleazy motel this time."

Dean didn't like the sound of that much. Maybe it was because he'd learned how to drive almost as soon as he learned how to walk, but neighborhoods made him feel cagey, like he should be climbing a fence somewhere and making a run for it. Sam was getting out of the car, though, stretching his ridiculously long limbs as he looked around, so Dean reluctantly did the same, shutting off the Impala and stepping out onto the driveway. Sam bent to pick up a frosty newspaper from beneath the car and Dean opened the mailbox and peered inside, then shut it again, shoving his hands down in his pockets to hide them from the chill air.

"I don't like this, Sam. Something hinky's going on here. Since when do angels own property? And who the hell are the Gerbers?"

"The Gerbers are your hosts."

For one crazy second Dean thought the inflatable snowman was talking to him. Then he realized that Castiel had been standing in the yard the whole time, poking out of the snow like an out-of-season marigold and half-hidden from the driveway by the bulk of stay-puft Frosty. Sam jumped a little and steadied himself against the roof of the Impala, and Dean swore under his breath, and then decided to repeat it loud enough to give the angel a piece of his mind.

"Damn your bones, Cas. How long have you been standing there like some kind of stalkerazzi?"

Castiel did his little head-tilt thing, which Dean had long figured out was code for _your ridiculous human words don't compute in my universal translator_. "I have been here approximately seven hours," he answered, like the robot he was. "The woman who lives next door approached several times to ask whether I needed assistance, but I declined."

"Oh, good—so you've already met the neighbors," Dean muttered, tucking his keys into his pocket and finally slamming the driver's side door. But Sam had something else on his mind, judging by the way he tiptoed toward Castiel with a glance over his shoulder at the quiet house.

"Wait—our hosts? We're going to be staying with someone?"

Dean already had the keys back in his hand, because Hell would freeze over and demons would actually ascend before he shacked up with a house full of Gerbers—but Castiel just frowned, shaking his head once like he was trying to reset whatever software was in charge of his brain. "Perhaps I misspoke. This house belongs to the Gerbers, but it has been prepared for you. The Gerbers have no need of it at present."

Sam blinked at that, while Dean shot the angel a full-on scowl, tired of vague answers that felt more like they belonged in a mob movie than _Interview with an Angel_. "What the hell's that mean, they don't need it? Where are they?" Then something occurred to him, and Dean's mouth fell open, a feeling of horror gnawing at his gut. "Cas, did you Shanghai the Gerbers? Are they locked in a basement somewhere with water and rabbit pellets? 'Cause I don't know where you bought your moral compass, but that's just wrong, man, no matter whose bells you're trying to bag."

Sam shot him a pissy look for his phrasing, which admittedly came out a little dirtier than Dean had meant it to. Castiel just tipped his head the other way, like a really slow bobble-head doll. "Harold Gerber is a pious man," he said, as if that explained everything. "As soon as the bells were discovered to be missing, an angel entered his dreams and asked for permission to use his residence for the Lord's work. He consented, of course. Then he and his family won an all-expenses-paid, indefinite vacation package to Maui." Castiel glanced up at the cloudless sky, as if gauging the time by the position of the sun. "Their plane left this morning."

Dean snorted under his breath. "No fucking kidding. You know what, Cas? Next time we get the package vacation, and the Gerbers can take care of the nasty demon shit. How's that sound?"

Cas opened his mouth like he was actually going to answer that—God help them, eleven months and the guy still struggled with rhetorical questions—but fortunately Sam stopped that nonsense before it could start, clearing his throat and glancing between them as he ran a hand through his girly hair. "Uh—guys? We should probably take this inside. Someone's watching us from the house next door." He jerked his head at the brown house on their right, and Dean looked over in time to see a silhouette at the front window before the lacy curtains were pulled tight, concealing whoever it was. Dean shook his head.

"Nosy neighbors. Welcome to suburban hell," he muttered. He got no response, though, as Sam was already out of earshot, trailing Castiel up the carefully shoveled steps to the front door. Dean shook his head, because he wouldn't be caught dead shoveling the walk of this two-story deluxe mousetrap—any more snow that fell could stay where it fucking landed. He caught up with Sam and Cas in time to hear the big blue and white snowman hung on the door burst into song as Castiel inserted a key and pushed the door open.

Two steps in, Dean realized the Gerbers were loaded. Four steps in, he realized Castiel was lying about Maui—the Gerbers had obviously been kidnapped by an army of smiling snowman decorations, which had taken over the house in their absence. The damn things were everywhere, from the wooden statue in the entryway where Sam paused to toe off his shoes to the pile of snowman pillows decorating the L-shaped wraparound couch in the living room that was right up the stairs. Even most of the ornaments on the Christmas tree were snowmen, their bulbous heads grinning at Dean out of the full pine branches. The room had a collection of snowglobes that should have featured on an episode of "Hoarders," most of them snowmen, too, including one where just the snowman's head was sticking up into the globe like some kind of frozen astronaut ready to take the invasion into space. Dean picked up one of the snowman pillows and then almost threw it across the room when the thing started dancing, practically gyrating in his hands and blaring out "Frosty the Snowman" like a bad ringtone. He spent ten seconds trying in vain to turn it off, and then he just shoved it behind the rest of the snowman couch pillows, which only muffled it a little.

On the landing below him, Dean could hear Sam asking all the boring questions—house rules, what day the garbage truck came by, something about the thermostat—but Dean knew top priority was checking out the house, because he was going to have to find somewhere to sleep in all this baloney. Aside from the couch and the tree, the living room hosted a plasma-screen and a gas fireplace set into a white marble mantle, hung with four kitschy stockings. A door onto the patio led to a sloping backyard that sported a treehouse and a concrete basketball court under feet of snow.

He decided to try his luck in the basement, even though it meant edging past Sam and Cas on the stairs—Cas was doing a pretty good impression of a real estate agent, babbling about square footage and modern appliances, while Sam nodded along like a newlywed trying to decide if the neighborhood had a good enough school system for her 2.5 future children. Dean followed another flight of stairs down to the bottom floor, where he finally decided for good that the Gerbers had kids—the family room had an air hockey table as well as an even bigger TV, and the two doors at the end of the hall had the names "TINA" and "JOSHUA" hung on them in block letters, Tina's accompanied by a pink sign declaring "No boys allowed!" Dean only had to crack the door to get a sense of the unicorn and teen idol apocalypse that had exploded all over those walls. Josh's room had its own TV at least, not to mention more game systems than Dean could actually name—but it also had that persistent teenager smell of Cheetos and dirty socks, and while Dean probably could have gotten over that, he had some issues about sleeping in some other dude's bed. He shut the door and headed back upstairs.

Sam and Cas were in the kitchen now, attached to the living room by way of a dining room filled with a long table under a huge-ass chandelier. Dean noticed a nativity scene set up on the buffet under the window to the backyard and had to convince himself not to vomit all over the Turkish rug. There was a picture of the Gerbers hung right at the top of the stairs, and Dean paused there for a moment to stare at the family portrait. They were posed with the Boulder foothills as a backdrop, each of them wearing a different color of the Easter pastel rainbow—beer gut Dad in forest green, botox Mom in petunia pink, boy band Josh in barf blue and tweeny Tina in baby chick yellow. They looked like the models from the cover of one of those family board games. From the kitchen, Sam asked an unintelligible question and Cas answered something about being free to use anything in the house, including the clothes; Dean made a face at the picture and headed down the upstairs hallway. There was no way he was touching the Gerbers' duds. If Sam and Cas wanted to dress up and play house, well, that was their business, but as far as he knew Colorado didn't have a marriage clause for Sasquatch and stalker guardian angels.

Then Dean pushed open the door at the end of the hall, and knew instantly that he had hit the jackpot. Yeah, the master bedroom was suffering from the same snowman invasion as the rest of the house, but he could deal with that for the king-sized bed covered in heaps of pillows and the forty-inch flatscreen TV hung on the wall right across from it. A sliding glass door led out onto the deck over the garage, and from up here Dean could see that the railing was hung with hundreds of icicle lights, dull green garlands wrapped down every post. The master bathroom smelled like one of those gay candle stores in the mall, probably because there were like five dishes of red and gold potpourri perched all over the counter and the windowsill—but it was all worth it for the bathtub, an enormous shell-shaped tub complete with Jacuzzi jets. Dean grinned to himself. He thought about licking something, which was how he'd always called dibs when he and Sam were young enough that a little spit sent Sam into conniptions; ultimately he picked the more mature approach and sauntered back down the hallway, searching for his wayward brother.

Apparently the kitchen was Sam's new favorite room—he and Cas were still in there, chatting it up like two girls in home ec class. When Dean came in and leaned his elbows on the counter of the breakfast bar that separated the dining room from the massive kitchen with too many cabinets, Sam was bent over with his head in the oven, Castiel waiting behind him with his classic blank expression. Sam stood up and brushed his hair back behind his ears.

"Is it a self-cleaning oven?" Sam asked, resettling a snowman dishtowel on the bar across the oven door. Dean wondered what the hell Sam was planning to do to the oven that it would need cleaning, and also when somebody had invented ovens that could do that—but his news was more important than any of that, so he broke in before Cas could divulge that snore-worthy piece of information, drumming on the marble countertop to get Sam's attention.

"Hey, Sammy," he said, grinning when Sam's eyes flickered over to find his. "I call dibs on the master bedroom. And before you ask, I ain't sharing."

That got a reaction from Sam finally, as his brother turned away from the kitchen to face Dean with a frown. "So where am I supposed to sleep?" he asked.

Dean shrugged, fighting to keep his smile under wraps. "I thought you'd want to stay in Tina's room. It's perfect for you." Sam put his bitchface on, but Dean kept going, shoving his hands down in his pockets. "She's got a canopy bed. And a poster for that Beaver kid. It's like teeny bopper heaven."

Castiel looked confused at that, but Dean ignored him—Cas never could keep up with a good old-fashioned Sam thrashing. Sam just rolled his eyes. "Whatever. I'll sleep on the couch. Marcie Gerber left us a note," he went on, waving a piece of snowflake stationery covered in neat black print. "They've stocked the fridge for us and she told the neighbors we're friends of the family who'll be staying for a while. Oh, and she left the schedule for their church. In case we're not sure where to worship." Sam raised his eyebrows and Dean made a face at him, moving back into the dining room to look out the window.

"Sounds like a great time. Maybe Cas'll go as your date."

Dean didn't hear Sam's comeback to that, if he made one at all. He was distracted all of a sudden by an enormous box on the dining room table, covered in worn black leather and so long it ran almost the full length of the table. He was positive it hadn't been there when he surveyed the dining room before, and he shot a suspicious glance at the angel in the kitchen before reaching out to touch it, the leather pebbled under his fingertips.

"What the hell is this?" Dean asked.

"That's mine," Castiel told him.

Dean shook his head. "I always suspected you slept in a coffin, you creepy fucker."

"Dean," Sam snapped from the kitchen—his little brother was apparently in full-out bitchy housewife mode, an amazing transformation considering they'd only been inside ten minutes. Castiel just stepped around the breakfast bar and moved to stand next to Dean.

"It is a vessel of containment," he said, unhooking the golden latch on one side of the box and flipping the lid open. Dean was surprised to see that the inside was all red velvet, with spaces pushed down into it that looked the right shape for a set of handbells. The two bells Castiel had brought with him to the diner were already inside, nestled together at one end. Castiel closed the lid and latched it again. "The bells will be stored here after you collect them. It should prevent them from gathering negative energy while you're here. Anything else would be too dangerous." His eyes cut over to Sam, who was leaning against the counter—Dean had seen him do the same thing in the diner, and it sort of pissed him off for some reason. He pulled Castiel's focus back to him with a punch to the angel's shoulder.

"Hey. So how does this work, exactly? You drop in every other day or something, and in the meantime we try and magically find these bells?"

He'd expected another vague answer from Castiel, something about bells resonating and how there was no try. What he got was the angel tilting his head to one side and peering up at him with narrowed eyes, scrutinizing his face like he was tracking invisible bugs or something.

"I will not be… dropping in," Castiel told him, the words awkward as usual on his tongue. "As I told you in the diner, I have been assigned to stay close. I will be here for the duration of the mission."

Dean's brain struggled to make that compute, but fortunately Sam was on the case, stepping out of the kitchen and joining their little dining room huddle at last. "Wait. You mean you're going to stay with us the whole time we're looking for the bells? You're going to stay here?"

Castiel's forehead furrowed, his gaze swinging over to find Sam's. "I didn't realize that wouldn't be acceptable."

"No—no, it's fine!" Sam said, stumbling all over himself like the teenage girl Dean had always known he was inside. "Of course it's fine. That would be great, Cas. You're more than welcome." He shot the angel a big-eyed smile, dimples and all, and Dean had to fight down the urge to gag.

"Don't swoon, Sammy—there's a granite counter behind you," he said, earning identical bitchfaces from both of his companions. Which was so adorable he could smother them both. Dean rolled his eyes. "And what the hell, Cas? I thought you said you couldn't use your angel mojo on this one."

"I can't," Castiel affirmed. "Except in an extreme emergency, I have been instructed to use as little power as possible, so as not to draw demonic attention."

Dean made a face of his own. "So what's the point of you being here, if you can't do anything?"

Sam kicked him in the shin again. It didn't hurt that badly, since Sam had his shoes off like a good houseguest—but on the other hand, it was the exact same place where Sam had kicked him yesterday, and Dean winced, hissing through his teeth.

"Okay, okay. Join the team. Whatever. But I stand by what I said—I ain't sharing with either of you."

Castiel nodded once, like he couldn't care less. "I will stay with Sam."

Dean glanced over his shoulder at the living room, eyebrows raised. "Well, good luck—that couch's gonna be a tight squeeze," he said. But when he turned back to find Castiel staring at his brother without so much as blinking, he got the horrible feeling that the angel hadn't taken that as a joke, and that was almost disturbing enough to make Dean want to take the couch instead, with or without the singing, dancing snowman.


	3. December 2

**December 2  
**

Sam stood off to the side of the small Starbucks in the grocery store near the Gerbers' house. His hands were folded into the pockets of his brown jacket, and he shifted his weight from foot to foot beside the huge arrangement of dark red poinsettias, staring at the board above the little kiosk, like he had been for the last twenty minutes. The coffee shop had trotted out a line of drinks just for the holidays—peppermint mochas and spice lattes—and the air was thick with the scent of cinnamon and the dull clang of Christmas music already blaring through the grocery store speakers.

The tall hunter couldn't help digging his hands uncomfortably against the fabric of the lining in his pockets. He had left the house on Briarwood and driven the Impala all the way down to a generic coffee store to avoid this kind of complicated drink decision. Some part of Sam drew away from the possibility that it was something else he was avoiding.

The Gerbers' house was beautiful, like a Christmas movie, and now complete with Dean the Scrooge figure who would warm up by Christmas, and Castiel the clueless angel. Sam bit his lip. The Gerbers had some kind of expensive espresso machine that made single servings of coffee. It also had a setting for mocha, macchiato, drip, and next to it was a basket of different flavors of coffee. There was French vanilla, hazelnut, dark roast, light.

And as Sam had stood there with all his choices, he could hear even footsteps on the stairs. He could imagine the serious face of the angel, his tan trench coat brushing the carpet as he ascended. A bowl of red and green and silver Hershey's kisses glinted in the light of the morning sun coming through the window, and when Sam looked at the coffee machine again he realized there were little rainbows dancing across it, reflected from a crystal star that hung in the window over the sink. And suddenly he tried to remember if there were any Christmas movies that weren't love stories.

"Sam," Castiel said. Sam felt a shiver running up his spine, and he glanced over, not really looking at the other figure, before focusing on the basket of coffee. His fingers clasped around some sort of blend in a blue bag decorated with snowflakes. He set it aside. His stomach was flip-flopping somewhere in the vicinity of his chest, and he pushed the basket a few inches away across the countertop.

Sam forced a quick smile at the angel, who stood in the opening between the kitchen and the living room. His heart skipped oddly as Cas said his name again, something more questioning in his tone. The Impala keys were already in his hands, and Sam wondered idly if somewhere in the back of his mind he hadn't already been planning this when he told Dean to leave them out the night before—in case either of them needed the car.

"I'm just going on a quick coffee run. I'll be right back," Sam said, not looking up as he shrugged into his coat and headed toward the door. It wasn't that he didn't want to see the angel's expression—it was that he might stay if he did, and the Gerbers just had too many coffee choices.

But now he was staring at a cute depiction of a mug with a striped candy cane sticking out of the top and little holly leaves dotting the space around a whipped-cream-covered caramel-cream. One of the employees had drawn a snowman with a hat and a scarf and a steaming coffee mug on their Specials Board, which was highly ridiculous unless that snowman wanted to melt himself with that drink, or somehow thought he was going to be immune to the reality of his existence.

Sam tried to look past the poinsettias, the candy canes, all the little decorations and find the word latte on the board. He could just go up and order it—he had enough money and they never ran out of ingredients for the house drinks. His eyes focused on the plain word in all caps, followed by a line of dots that led to a price on the other end of the board.

And it wasn't really a hard decision—wasn't a decision at all—because Sam had come down for coffee, and he'd never tried any of the kitschy holiday beverages, and he didn't really want to take a chance on them now, but…Sam shifted his hands out of his pockets, glancing down to his side as his hand brushed against the soft petal of a poinsettia.

The display was striking, with full blooming flowers in plastic containers wrapped in bright colors of foil, set up on a many-tiered display that was tied with ribbons and bows. He turned away from the coffee shop and the pair of woman working behind the counter, lifting one hand to trace the outline of a curved red petal.

The Gerbers' house had a lot of things, but not poinsettias, Sam realized; probably because the red and green would disturb the blue and white snowman motif. The flowers would be out of place in the house, much like the Winchesters. Sam turned back to the coffee shop.

It wasn't like using the Gerbers' coffee machine was some kind of binding promise, or that staying there had to mean anything. But somehow it did.

Sam fingered the car keys in his pocket and considered trying to find another coffee shop, when suddenly there was hand on his shoulder. The tall hunter jumped, feeling the keys dig into his palm as he squeezed them in surprise. He followed the hand on his arm to the sleeve of the tan trench coat, and then up to meet the worried gaze of the angel, who, from the looks of the wet line on the bottom of his pant legs, had walked all the way down.

"Cas," Sam breathed, willing his tense shoulder to relax. Castiel let his hand slide down until it rested against Sam's elbow.

"You did not _come right back_ , Sam," Castiel said, pronouncing the phrase carefully, and looking searchingly at him. The hand on his arm felt strong and solid, and Sam couldn't decide if it was comforting or restraining.

"Yeah, I'm just…having a little trouble deciding…about the coffee."

Sam made a half-hearted gesture at the kiosk, and Cas narrowed his eyes at it for a moment, probably trying to determine if there was anything different about it from the hundred other Starbucks Sam had stopped at.

"I'm sorry I took off like that…" Sam put his hand over Cas's for just a second, bringing the angel's attention back to him. There was nothing to notice about the shop, after all. Castiel studied him and then tilted his head a little as he spoke, as though trying to make sure he got the words right.

"You do not like the Gerbers' house?" he asked slowly.

Sam shook his head immediately, shifting on the pads of his feet. "No, no, nothing like that," the tall hunter assured. "I just. It's perfect, Cas—it's so perfect." The red poinsettias rocked slightly as Sam brushed the display with his hip, turning deliberately and taking Cas's hand in his own as it fall away from his arm. "I love it," Sam said.

He wasn't sure where the words were coming from, only that they probably made more sense than the Gerbers having too many types of coffee to choose from. And he didn't know why being with Castiel made all these things he had successfully buried suddenly come out of his mouth.

"We just—we could finish this bell thing in a week." Sam's kept his voice low, aware that they were still in a grocery store but unable to stop himself. "I don't want to overstep myself, Cas…I don't want to ruin this."

Sam's thoughts tumbled around his brain, chasing one another, and he was no longer even sure himself whether he was talking about the Gerbers' house, or a life outside of hunting, or the chance for a real Christmas, or something else that had to do with how hard he was squeezing Castiel's fingers. He felt like the snowman who was about to melt with what he wanted right in his hands.

Castiel's fingers were squeezing back, holding them tightly as the angel's lips twitched as though he wanted to say something. Sam mentally backtracked everything he had told the other man, trying to determine how much Cas could have understood. But in the end Sam wasn't even sure how much he understood himself.

"Sam," the angel said finally, drawing the tall hunter's attention. "Even if you were to collect all of the bells tomorrow, the Gerbers will return on January first at the earliest."

"What?" The word slipped from Sam's lips as he tried to decide what the angel was telling him. Castiel frowned, as though attempting to figure out some miscommunication.

"Perhaps I was not clear," he continued, looking up at Sam with those intense eyes. "You can stay at the Gerbers' house for the entire month of December. It has been prepared for you."

Sam couldn't remember how many times Castiel had said those words to him the day before, as he explained all the appliances, told him about the rooms, answered every question he had asked, but for the first time Sam felt like he really understood. The house had been prepared for them—by Cas. The angel had found this place for them. Sam felt gratitude flooding through him.

"And you?" he breathed. He was getting ahead of himself again, breaking all his own rules about loving an angel. "Will you stay for Christmas even if we find the bells?"

This time Castiel did smile. It was gentle expression on him that brought an answering smile to Sam's lips. He almost lifted a hand to ghost across the angel's jaw line, trying to memorize the way he looked like this.

"If that's what you want, Sam," Cas said, applying a soft pressure to the fingers in his. "Then I will stay for Christmas. I…promise."

And suddenly, Sam found the Gerbers' coffee selection sounded perfect—so did the seasonal holiday drinks at the store, and when he looked at the snowman again, he decided that the drink would make him warm, and even if he melted in the end, it would probably be worth it.

.x.

Castiel sat in a tall chair at the bar of the Gerbers' kitchen and watched Sam pouring water into the large silver coffeemaker on the counter near the sink. Tiny rainbows were dancing across his back, castoff light from a crystal star suspended in the kitchen window, and they stretched and contracted as he shifted one way or the other, the play of light catching on the lines of his shoulder blades through the gray t-shirt he had slept in. Sam had taken off his jacket when they'd returned to the house, and then he had taken Castiel's coat, too, because the hem had gotten wet during his walk to the grocery store. Sam had told him to sit down at the bar while he made coffee, and that after coffee they would make breakfast or something—then he had ducked his head to hide a smile and gone back to digging through the Gerbers' basket of ground coffee, as he had been when Castiel first found him that morning.

Coffee was a complicated issue for Sam, Castiel had decided. He did not understand how the Gerbers' coffee could have been wrong earlier that morning but had become acceptable now, nor did he understand why Sam had left to get coffee but still hadn't acquired any by the time Castiel found him in the grocery store coffee shop, exchanging stares with a chalk snowman. But the angel wasn't sure he understood the intricacies of coffee anyway, or how the bean of one plant could be consumed in so many different ways, so he assumed Sam's difficulties had been related somehow to that. He was pleased that Sam was in a better mood now that the coffee problem seemed likely to be resolved.

Sam pivoted on the ball of one foot to face Castiel, two colorful packets of coffee in his hands and a self-conscious smile on his face. "Hey. Um. Which one looks better, French vanilla or hazelnut roast?"

Castiel wasn't sure how the relative attractiveness of the packages influenced the taste of the coffee, but he did as Sam asked and examined them anyway. The packets bore the same logo and were made of the same foil laminate material, but one was light blue with a pattern of snowflakes, while the other was a soft brown color, decorated at the bottom with golden silhouettes of reindeer. Castiel glanced between them and then up into Sam's hazel eyes.

"The brown one," he said.

Sam laughed, the short, surprised laugh that usually meant Castiel had misunderstood something—but then he shrugged and slid the blue packet back into the coffee basket, his smile stretching a little wider as he raised his eyebrows. "Okay—the brown one it is," Sam said, turning back to the coffeemaker. "Just give me a sec—I've never used one of these before, so it might take me a minute to figure out."

Castiel didn't reply, watching silently as Sam poured coffee grinds into the machine and moved on to the buttons, a soft beep filling the kitchen every time he pressed one. When he had been tasked with finding accommodations for the Winchesters, there had been a number of options, ranging from smaller houses and apartments owned by other pious people to long-term rental properties with standard light-colored furniture—but he had rejected those, because that wasn't what he wanted for Sam, Sam who always seemed most content at Bobby's house, in a place that offered a washing machine and a full-sized bed and a walk-in closet and a coffeemaker, and the permanence implied by those things. He had kept looking until he'd found the Gerbers' house, somewhere he could imagine Sam standing at the kitchen sink, his head falling back onto the crown of the couch. After Sam had driven off to get coffee that morning, Castiel had suffered doubt, concerned that he had misread what Sam wanted and chosen badly. But Sam had said it was perfect, and squeezed his hand—and Castiel still felt that warmth in his fingers. He glanced down at his hand where it was pressed to the marble countertop.

Sam had asked him to stay for Christmas, and Castiel had promised, because that was what Sam wanted. He felt that he might promise Sam anything to make him smile. But perhaps even more persistent than the warmth in his fingers was the thought that Sam wanted him to stay, had smiled because of that, and Castiel was not certain what to make of the strange, expansive feeling that had ignited in his chest.

"Hey, Cas?"

Castiel looked up from his hand to find that Sam was facing him again, holding up two ceramic mugs shaped like the heads of smiling snowmen, their striped scarves curling up into handles. Sam tipped his head a little, nudging his unbrushed bangs out of his face.

"You want to try some? Of the coffee," he amended, as if the angel might have been confused. Castiel studied him with thoughtful eyes.

Sam had told him once that if he was in love, he would just know—even him, though he had never felt it before and had nothing to compare it to. Castiel didn't feel he _knew_ anything for certain. But he also felt that somehow he might, if he stayed until Christmas.

Sam quirked an eyebrow, jiggling the snowman mugs. "Cas?" he asked.

Castiel offered him a small smile. "Yes, Sam," he said. "I would like that very much."


	4. December 3

**December 3  
**

Sam let his long legs pump under him as his skates slid across the ice. The Boulder Valley Ice Rink was a full-sized rink with a high ceiling and stadium seating, separated from the ice by the clear, plastic walls best known for catching the faces of hockey players when checked. There were no hockey players there now, though. Sam and Cas had come for the Christmas Free Skate from one to three p.m.—mostly in hopes that with kids still in school the rink would be almost empty.

It wasn't packed, but there was a smattering of people: a handful of very young children in little one-piece snowsuits with pom-pom hats alternated between walking awkwardly on their skates and sitting down on their butts under the watchful gaze of red-and-green-clad mothers; a few older boys raced determinedly on colorful skates that certainly hadn't been rented from the public rink; and a group of college-aged girls in leotards and sweats did figure eights and other tricks in the center, laughing and giggling and distracting the boys.

Sam and Cas weren't turning any heads in a good way, or in a bad way, which Sam supposed was the most he could hope for in this situation. The tall hunter shored up his skates against the ice, slowing down and glancing around for Castiel. Green garlands with red bows were draped artfully around the wall surrounding the rink, and yet another rendition of "Jingle Bells" was blaring from the speakers. It took a moment for Sam to remember that he was not looking for the tan trench coat and instead spot the garish splotch of red.

Castiel was ahead of him on the rink, taking the corner. He had both knees bent, no longer pumping his legs but instead just letting the momentum carry him in a wide arc. Cas had not really taken to skating, and Sam hadn't really been able to teach him much. His experiences with skating were limited to one hot summer that he and Dean had spent in Joliet, Illinois. There had been a pool and an ice rink. Dean had just turned eighteen and was the self-proclaimed bikini inspector, so Sam had learned to ice skate—not well, though, and he felt even more oafish and clumsy than usual on the ice.

At least he and Cas blended in with the Christmas crowd and weren't getting any suspicious looks from parents—though that made the tall hunter wince too.

Castiel was almost at a full stop when he finally finished the long rotation of the curve, and he lifted one foot to move forward again. Sam was catching up quickly. He fiddled with the long scarf he wore as he prepared to snag the sleeve of the hideous red sweater on their resident angel.

While one to three was the probably the best time to skate without a crowd, it was also the little kid skating time, so Sam had told Cas the trench coat was a _no_ , and sent him up to change. Sam himself had borrowed a blue windbreaker and paired it was a tacky white scarf covered in snowmen holding various Christmas props, like candy canes and presents. After looking at himself in the mirror a moment, Sam had dug around in the drawers until he had found a couple of little hairclips, also disturbingly with snowmen, and used them to clip aside his bangs. Privately, Sam thought it probably wasn't exactly the image he was going for, but importantly he looked younger—like he could pass for a college student, instead of setting off Stranger Danger alarm bells as he skated between all the little kids.

Castiel was wearing a red knit sweater instead of his trench coat, but Sam could tell he had the entire suit on under it, jacket and all, and the only other switch was he could see was a big-eyed cartoon reindeer with a red nose peeking out from Cas's borrowed tie. The red sweater pictured Mrs. Snowman on the front, with an apron and long eyelashes, and Sam had the vague memory of a similarly tasteless green sweater with Mr. Snowman on the other side of the closet, but he didn't really have the heart to tell the angel that he was probably wearing _Mrs_. Gerber's clothes. After all, Mr. Gerber was a man of considerable girth, and the fit of the red sweater was better on him. Still, it was probably a good thing that Dean had taken off before them.

Between Sam's hair clips and Cas's flirty Snowwoman, the tall hunter couldn't say he was totally surprised by the reception they got from the blond girl with the fake elf ears who rented them their skates—it was a look he was used to, after all. And even though all she said was "Have a nice time skating together!" Sam heard the references to two queens, and antiquers, and all the clever ways people had to say they were open-minded.

Sam caught up to Castiel easily on the ice, brushing his fingers against the red sleeve and sending the angel a smile. Cas's face remained fixed in an intense look of concentration as he tried to move his legs like Sam had showed him. Sam bit back a grin. Castiel was highly intelligent and he grasped the concept of most things almost immediately, but sometimes Sam wondered if the angel would ever be comfortable in a human body. The simplest of things like bowling and catch seemed to forever elude him, his limbs simply unable to make natural human movements. Dean thought it was funny, because Cas was failing and he seemed to enjoy watching people do that—something the younger Winchester had first-hand knowledge of. Sam just thought it was endearing, because an all-powerful angel was struggling to skate with an insignificant human—and though Dean seemed keen to forget, Castiel really didn't have to do these things.

It didn't make him any more graceful, though, Sam had to admit. One of Cas's skates slipped backward, and the tall hunter winced slightly as a few flecks of ice sprayed upward; he could almost hear the grinding beneath the blade of the angel's skate. Castiel hadn't fallen once, but whoever was driving the Zamboni was going to mystified by the deep gashes in the ice here and there which no human could have made. Sam had skated a little past his companion and was preparing to try and turn around—as ill-advised as that might be—when his phone buzzed in his jacket pocket.

Sam pulled it out, glancing down long enough to recognize the number that Dean was currently using before skating over to one of the openings along the wall and stepping off the ice. The rubbery floor made his steps spring awkwardly as he made his way over to a relatively empty bench, bringing the phone up to his ear.

"Dean," he greeted. Thankfully the music rocketing over the speakers was dampened a little bit over the bleacher-like metal seats around the rink, but still Sam had trouble hearing his brother's return greeting. He lifted his other hand, covering his ear; it only helped a little, and Sam realized that whatever the noise was, it was coming from Dean's side of the line.

"What is that?" Sam wanted to know, trying to place the strange sounds that might have been music. The noise dulled a little, and Sam figured Dean must have moved away or found some way to block the phone.

"That, apparently, is a marimba band." Dean's voice was cranky, and Sam could imagine the pinched look on his face. "You ask me, Boulder people are crazy." Sam could barely picture a marimba in his head, with the xylophone like keys on the top and the huge tubes hanging below. The clunking sounded more like music when coupled with that information, but he almost felt sorry for his brother.

"So I take it nothing at the concert so far." Sam ran a hand through his hair, careful to avoid the barrettes, and sat down on the bleacher giving his legs a break. "Frosty the Snowman" was playing on the speakers, and even though he knew his brother couldn't possibly see him through the phone, Sam felt self-conscious all over again. Dean didn't seem to notice anything.

"Concert," Dean snorted. "Sure. You know this may be one of your dumbest ideas ever."

Sam winced. With snowman barrettes in his hair and speed skaters darting around the obstacle that was Cas taking another corner with both knees bent at ever-decreasing speed, Sam was tempted to agree. But Dean's head was big enough without anyone ever telling him he was right.

"Well, we haven't really found anything yet either," Sam admitted. He turned away, reaching down to fiddle with the buckles on one skate.

"Yeah, well at least your just kicking back, eating snacks and watching people skate—and you've got Cas to keep you company."

Sam made a non-committal noise, ducking his head even though he knew Dean couldn't see. "Yeah we're just watching skaters," he agreed. Once again, luckily, it seemed Dean's concern with his own bad fortune made him oblivious to Sam's awkward lies.

"As for _me_ ," Dean continued, punctuating the word. "I'm stuck at this local-yokels Holler to the Holidays nightmare—and Sam, let me assure you, some poltergeist energy would be an improvement. They've got guys doing a cappella, and none of the girls in Santa dresses look remotely like Rockettes. They look like fat Eskimos." Dean's voice had taken on that particular whining quality by the last that made Sam want to roll his eyes.

"Isn't this thing an outdoor concert?" he asked. "Don't you think the costumes are possibly just weather appropriate?"

"And yet I'm not wearing some crazy parka and hat."

Sam went ahead and succumbed, rolling his eyes skyward and then blinking the brightness of the overhead lights away. Dean had point-blank refused to trade out his leather jacket for a proper winter coat, or even augment with a hat and gloves, because apparently the Gerbers' stuff had come right out of Martha Stewart's fake home and he didn't want to be replaced by a Stepford wife the way Sam had. He was going to get cold, though, and then probably _catch_ a cold. Sam sighed, debating starting up some kind of argument about buying Dean warmer things. In the end he just fingered one of his Stepford barrettes and smiled.

"Just keep looking, Dean," he suggested. "I know it's not much of a lead, but if somebody is trying to cause trouble with these bells, then planting them in places where people are congregating for the holidays is not a bad start." Sam's gaze drifted to where one of the garlands had slipped from the skating rink wall—but it had fallen on the outside of the ice, and it screamed accident, not poltergeist. Still, accidents were exactly what they were looking for. "And be careful, Dean," Sam cautioned.

"Of what? Hippies with marimba sticks…hey what are you looking at?!" Sam pulled the phone away from his ear a little bit as his brother's voice grew louder. He was ninety percent certain the last hadn't been meant for him. Dean was such a joy at Christmas. "What were you saying?" his brother asked.

"That you should be careful of accidents, Dean. A harpist fell through a stage there yesterday." Sam hoped that if he could say it sharply enough it might penetrate the thick layer of stupidity around his brother's head. As a teenager Sam had dubbed it the bozone layer—a mixture of booze and idiocy that protected people like Dean from good ideas.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said distractedly, and Sam thought he could almost hear the ping of his warning bouncing off. "Your new mom pals on your mom blog warned you all about it, I know."

Sam looked heavenward again, this time searching for patience, but he didn't bother to set his brother straight. He had been looking for signs of poltergeist activity online, and without anything big showing up in news sources, he had found the accident at the outdoor stage in an online college newspaper, and a warning about a number of accidents at the ice arena on a soccer mom's safety watch website.

Sam looked up suddenly, realizing he had lost track of Cas. His eyes scanned the rink slowly, but the angel was no longer among the Christmas-clad assortment. The tall hunter stood, trying to squint at other areas of the stadium seating, feeling oddly like either a mom looking for a child she took her eyes off for just a moment, or a high school student worried about being left in the middle of a date. He wasn't really sure which was worse. Then the garish red of the sweater caught his attention, and Sam felt his heartbeat slow back down. Castiel had skated off of the ice and was sitting alone in the penalty box across the rink.

"Sam." Dean's voice cut in with a whine that made Sam think his brother had probably said something else before dragging the name out.

"Well, I'm going to keep looking around here," Sam said, trying to speed the conversation to a finish. "And I think there's a no cell phones allowed on the ice rule, so…" The tall hunter realized his mistake a moment after he said it, and wished he could shove the snowman scarf down his throat until he choked and died, or maybe just hang himself with it.

" _On the ice?_ " Dean said with glee in his voice. "You guys are skating? Seriously, like…skating? Cause I thought Cas had that icicle shoved too far up his ass to…"

Sam squeezed his eyes shut before moving pointedly toward the rink. "Sorry, Dean—I'm going through a tunnel and running out of battery while hanging up on you." Sam pressed his thumb over the button despite the fact that Dean was still talking, and then ignored the vibrating in his pocket, joining the throng of skaters but staying toward the edge.

He stepped off into the penalty box, taking a few stuttered steps to get rid of extra momentum and sitting down next to the angel. Cas was frowning out over the ice, but he spared Sam a glance when he sat down on the bench. Sam considered for a moment trying to explain the meaning of the penalty box, but that conversation would have to start with hockey.

"Hey, Cas," he began instead, resting his hands on the bench and leaning back on his palms. The angel didn't respond at first, just kept staring out at the people going round and round on the ice. Sam tried to follow his gaze, see if he was looking anywhere in particular, but sometimes with Castiel it was impossible to tell. Sam licked his lips, trying to decide what to say, when Castiel spoke up suddenly, turning to pin the tall hunter with his dark eyes.

"Are we finished skating, Sam?" the angel asked seriously.

Of all the things Sam expected Cas to ask him, that wasn't it, and he wasn't even sure why. It was a straightforward question—simple and direct. The air escaped Sam's lungs in a slow exhale. He stared at Cas's questioning expression, the red snowman sweater, and suddenly Sam wasn't sure why he had rented skates and dragged them out onto the ice—dressed them up. Maybe he really was playing at something that he wasn't.

He wanted to meet Castiel's gaze and answer him directly. Instead he looked down at the end of the snowman scarf held between his hands.

"Do you want to stop?" he asked. He could feel the angel's gaze on him, but he didn't look up, keeping his eye locked instead with the black button eyes of the snowman, half cut off by the fringe, who brandished an entire wreath.

"I don't see how this is helping us to locate a bell," Castiel admitted, his voice low and soft. Sam looked across the rink, noting a couple of girls were pointing at them surreptitiously. The penalty box wasn't really a great place to have a conversation.

"I guess it's not," Sam admitted, letting a small smile slide across his face, because Cas was struggling to understand, and that, above all else, was familiar. "It's just…I skated a few times when I was a kid but never in December. The holiday season was…" Sam trailed off. He wanted to explain to Cas, he really did, but he couldn't seem to think of how to tell the angel what he was really trying to say.

Sam looked over finally. Castiel was focused on him, obviously waiting for Sam to continue, his expression serious. Sam felt a little laugh escape his lips, and the sound lightened his chest.

"But it's corny, right?" He smiled at the angel and the sweater, and the barrettes and the scarf. "Christmas skating—I mean, we both look pretty stupid out there."

Cas seemed perturbed for a moment at the word _stupid_ , looking at Sam and then himself as though trying to figure something out—but whatever he saw, he seemed to reach a conclusion, nodding once before standing up.

"Let's continue skating, Sam." He held out a hand to help the tall hunter to his feet. Sam took the offer, wrapping his fingers in the angel's. Castiel's hands were cool, probably because in all the time they had been skating he had never put them in his pockets or even tucked them into his sleeves.

Sam hesitated for one moment, but then he shrugged the scarf higher around his neck, and this time the smile felt warm on his face. "Let's," he agreed, and instead of letting go of Cas's hand he held onto it, leading them back out onto the ice.

It was harder to skate hand in hand because Sam wasn't all that skilled and Castiel really didn't maintain any kind of pace, but it was also more fun. Sam wobbled on the corner and ended up pulling Cas around faster and then grabbing onto his shoulders from behind as the angel picked up speed. Castiel made another gash in the rink and Sam laughed and would have sprawled into the ice if the angel hadn't snaked a firm arm around his waist. They had to start from a dead stop against the wall, and Sam felt elation as he reached out a hand to find that Castiel had already done the same, their fingers curling around each other in the space between them.

Girls were giggling somewhere in the background, but Sam found he didn't care at all—not even about the barrettes or the fact that he towered over everyone, including the figure they thought was his boyfriend. Skating was more fun than he remembered. The cool of the ice was offset by the warmth of the indoor air, and the exertion of skating brought a flush to his cheeks. Castiel was smiling too, though he never seemed out of breath, and neither of them was really improving, but the angel didn't seem to care anymore either.

The Christmas songs had turned around to "Jingle Bells" again and they were approaching the corner when Sam finally decided to take the plunge, slowing them down and turning around. He took both of Cas's hands in his, as much for his own balance as anything, and attempted to skate backward. Sam had just managed to find a rhythm, staring at Castiel, who met his eyes with no small amount of concern. Sam laughed and glanced over his shoulder to assess the corner—and that's when he saw it. The tall hunter lost all concentration, feeling a strange prickling sensation in the skin of his side, right where the bell sat heavy in the pocket of his windbreaker. Sam knew he had missed the turn, and felt one of his hands slide away from Cas's while his skates went out from under him, but he kept his eyes glued on the little girl—or more specifically, her skate.

The safety buckle had unhooked itself and popped open all on its own, right before Sam's eyes. The girl looked about eight or nine, and had a pink tutu on over her sweatpants and turtleneck. The tall hunter could hear Castiel calling his name as the prickling in his side became sharp and uncomfortable. The other buckle on the skate snapped off violently, sliding under the blade. The girl shrieked and went down in a hard, uncontrolled slide.

Sam felt Castiel's arm wrap around him and brace them as they both fell to the ice, Sam's shoulder hitting the railing as Cas stopped their momentum. The angel's back had hit the wall as well, and Sam had a feeling Castiel had taken the brunt of the impact. And he wanted to glance back—make sure the angel was okay—but the prickling in his side grew more intense and he found he couldn't look away, only watch in horror as the ice skate with the broken buckles flew off, spinning away on the slippery surface at a speed Sam was certain did not match velocity of the girl's tumble.

The blade of the skate turned end over end, and Sam's heart clutched up as he watched it glide maliciously toward a toddler who had slipped down to sit on the ice. It was all the way across the rink at this point, and Sam wasn't even on his feet. There was nothing he could do but watch, and know with a certainty that sunk like a pit into his stomach that this was no accident.

The tall hunter inhaled sharply as the blade neared the baby, felt Cas's grip on him, the air trapped in his lungs. Then a pair of red-and-white-striped arms were scooping up the child and a brunette was hugging the baby to her. The breath left Sam all at once, and he leaned back, half into Cas, half against the wall.

"Are you okay, Sam?" The tall hunter turned to meet concerned eyes and nodded.

Sam really would have preferred to stay sitting for a moment longer, but they were still on the ice, so he dusted his pants, getting up slowly. Castiel did the same. "I think I know where the bell is," Sam said, turning the accident over in his head and trying to commit the prickling sensation to memory. Apparently that was the feeling of a bell _resonating_.

The pair didn't leave the wall, walking next to the railing as they exited the rink. Cas trailed Sam to where they had left their shoes a few rows up into the bleachers, and the tall hunter worked at the buckles of his skates as fast as he could, swapping them out for his shoes. He hefted the skates in his hands, turning to Cas and then remembering suddenly.

"Cas," he said. "I'm so sorry, I forgot to ask—are you okay?" He studied the angel as Castiel slowly tied the lace on his Oxfords and straightened. "I mean I tripped us pretty bad out there…and you…"

"I am fine, Sam," Castiel cut in. "I am sorry I was not able to feel anything at all from the bell." He frowned slightly. Sam clapped a hand on his shoulder, leading them toward the front area with the blond girl and the skate rental.

"You said only a human would be able to feel it." The hunter let his hand slide away so that he could brace the skates. Cas held his own skates effortlessly with just a few fingers. "Besides, I have a pretty good idea where the bell is now. C'mon."

Sam led Castiel through the doorway just as the blonde who worked the front counter rushed past them into the area with the rink. The girl whose skate had broken had started bawling, and the mother had panicked, causing employees to rush to the ice, but that suited Sam's plan just fine.

He and Cas set their skates on the cloth-covered surface of the counter, and then Sam motioned for the angel to keep watch as he ducked behind the counter to where the rows and rows of skates were waiting to be checked out. It hadn't been the ice that had reacted malevolently to cause the accident—it had been the skate. Sam had seen enough poltergeists to know he should go to the source. The shelves farther toward the back were lined with adult skates, and one entire wall was hung with white figure skates. Sam poked around the shelves for a moment with no luck.

When he glanced back to Cas to see if he was still clear, he realized that all of the children's skates were toward the front counter, along with cleaning bottles, a few odds and ends, and a big cardboard box with _Lost and Found_ scrawled across the side in black marker.

"There is no one coming, Sam," Castiel assured him. Sam sent him a grateful glance, and then moved forward kneeling in front of the box. It was tucked partway onto the shelf. Sam reached his hands under the shelf to get ahold of the edges, and then jerked back as a sharp sting bit into his knuckles, accompanied by a sharp prickle in his side. Sam drew his hands out to see that something jagged had scraped across the knuckles of his left hand.

"Sam?" Castiel asked worriedly. The tall hunter waved him off.

"I'm fine, just a scratch." And it really was; it had already stopped bleeding. With renewed caution, Sam reached out again, pulling the box out from the shelf. There was a number of stuffed animals, a water bottle, a pair of glasses—and nestled right under a pink pearled headband, a golden bell. It was larger than the one Sam had in his pocket, possibly from somewhere in the middle of the set. Sam reached down, carefully sifting through the box before pulling the bell out.

"I got it." Sam popped his head over the counter, pushing the Lost and Found box back in with his foot, and holding out the golden piece of metal, pinching the clapper against the side of the bell with one finger to keep it from making any noise. Castiel looked relieved, but as Sam thought back to the blade of the skate and the tender flesh of the child, he wondered if maybe this bell thing wasn't going to be so easy after all.


	5. December 4

**December 4  
**

Castiel had never spent the Christmas season in the cities of man before. He was finding this holiday to be nearly as confusing as its predecessor. Unlike Thanksgiving, Castiel knew a great deal about the origins of Christmas, of course, remembered the key of the hymn that had swept through Heaven like a storm one midnight in spring—but he wasn't finding that to be as helpful as he'd expected, and many of the popular traditions puzzled him, from the red and white figure who had conquered every store window and plastic bag to the reindeer with a red nose who was never far behind. Sam had tried to explain a few of the most common Christmas icons, but Castiel could tell the young man was growing weary of his questions, never quite able to explain to the angel's satisfaction these cultural symbols that were, Castiel had decided, mainly arbitrary. So he had left off asking for explanations, and wandered away from Sam slightly to peruse the rows of tables at the open-air Christmas craft fair, hoping that immersion would give him a sense of familiarity, at least, if not understanding.

Dean had opted to stay at home for the day. He'd returned to the Gerbers' residence a little after Sam and Castiel the day before, howling from the moment he entered and limping heavily on his right leg. According to Dean's story, the floor of the stage had waited until after the marimba concert to collapse, at which point it had done so maliciously and without warning, plunging Dean's left foot into a jagged hole in the floorboards and exposing the bell that had somehow found its way under the very center of the stage, where the performers always stood. Castiel hadn't been able to tell whether Dean was more irritated that he had plunged through the stage, or that the marimba band, whose members he had described as being both tone deaf and in league with the devil, had escaped unscathed to play through their entire forty-minute set. Castiel imagined it was not ultimately very important.

With little else to go on, except Sam's now-confirmed hunch that the bells had been placed in centers of Christmas activity where they could do the most damage, Sam and Castiel embarked for the next Christmas listing advertised in the local paper: a Christmas handicrafts fair taking place on the city's open-air mall, in the square in front of the courthouse. Dean, flopping down on the living room couch with the TV remote in one hand and two holly-patterned Band-Aids wrapped around his toes, had steadfastly refused to go anywhere. Castiel had found he didn't care very much.

The angel paused next to a table of glittering bead ornaments and glanced over his shoulder, searching for his companion. It took a moment to locate Sam through the crowd of winter hats and coats, but at last he spotted his tall companion, bending down from his unusual height to speak to the woman behind the counter of a coffee cart. Sam was smiling, the soft smile Castiel had seen a number of times over the last four days; it reminded him of the expression Sam had worn the day before, at the skating rink, when he had grabbed Castiel's hands and turned to skate backward, drawing the angel after him with hopeful eyes. Castiel absently picked something up from the table and turned it over in his hand, watching Sam nod above his borrowed red scarf and remembering the warmth of Sam's fingers on his. It had only lasted an instant before Sam slipped and Castiel went down with him, desperate to protect him from all of the things that were so much harder than his fragile bones—but all the same, Castiel had a sense that he would have let Sam pull him anywhere in that moment, and never would have taken his hands back.

He was very glad to be wearing his own clothes again, though.

"It's seven ninety-five."

Castiel turned back to find the voice that had spoken—it was the girl behind the table, a young woman with long ropes of blond hair sliding down her shoulders beneath a purple knit hat, who smiled as their eyes met. It took Castiel a moment to realize that the number she had quoted was a price, and that she was talking about the object in his hand, one of the larger snowflake ornaments, composed of straight pins and an assortment of blue and white crystal beads forming each of its eight spokes. Castiel tilted his hand to let the beads catch the sun, marveling again at the human preoccupation with illuminating things, from Christmas trees to the long strings of round lights stretching from the snow-covered square to the top of the courthouse behind him. Perhaps man had never truly overcome his fear of the darkness, only learned how to light enough candles to keep it at bay. Castiel brushed his thumb over the center of the snowflake. Then he realized that the woman was watching him, waiting for some kind of answer, and he returned the ornament carefully to the empty spot on the table, glancing over the rest of her wares.

"I don't carry money," he said simply, tracing the central spike of another snowflake ornament, this one a pale lavender. "It holds no value for me."

"Oh," the girl behind the table said. There was a note to her voice that Castiel thought was either anxiety or confusion—sometimes he struggled with the distinction in strangers, whose moods he hadn't had time to catalogue. The girl shifted and pushed a flop of hair over one shoulder. "That's… kind of cool. Is it like a new-agey thing? Like flower power and Woodstock and stuff?"

"I don't understand that reference," Castiel told her.

His attention was drawn to a glitter of silver farther down the table, and he picked it up, holding the snowflake hair clip between two fingers. It reminded him of the pins Sam had worn in his hair the day before, the small enamel snowmen almost glowing against his dark hair under the bright lights of the ice rink. He wondered if Sam might wear these, too, use the sparkling silver snowflakes to hold his bangs back instead—it had been so much easier to read Sam's expression when he couldn't duck behind his long hair. Castiel pressed his lips together. Then suddenly Sam was behind him, a brush of coat against his arm and a warm breath on his ear as the tall hunter leaned forward to look over his shoulder, two Styrofoam cups bobbing in his hands.

"Hey, Cas," Sam said. Castiel twisted to face him, and Sam offered him a smile, tipping his head to one side as he nodded toward the table. "What are you looking at?" he asked.

Castiel glanced at the hair pin in his open palm, and then lifted his hand so that Sam could see it too, the snowflakes glittering as he raised them into the sunlight. "Would you like to have this, Sam?" he asked in return. Sam just blinked at him for a long moment before his eyebrows drew together, creating a little crinkle of confusion on his forehead.

"Um…why that?" the young man wanted to know. Castiel frowned slightly.

"To replace the snowmen," he said, lifting the pin again. "You will have to return the other hair clips to Tina before you leave."

Castiel so rarely understood what made Sam flush. He had found that he liked the color sometimes, when it was soft, just accenting a smile or a startled laugh; at other times, though, Castiel took it to mean he had gravely misunderstood something, or possibly insulted the other man, or said something he should not have in the company of other people. He assumed that this was a case of the latter, from the way Sam ducked his head as he picked the hair pin out of Castiel's hand and set it back on the table.

"Uh—you know what, Cas, I think I'll just use the snowmen for now," he said, giving the woman behind the table a quick, embarrassed smile. Then he balanced one Styrofoam cup on top of the other and used his free hand to pull Castiel away, back into the throng of people in winter coats wandering the craft fair and leaving white footprints behind them with every step.

Once they were far enough from the table that Sam's blush had receded to just a soft line of color across his cheeks, he sent Castiel a half smile, his lips twisting up at one corner as he handed the angel one of the cups.

"Peppermint hot chocolate. Apparently she grows her own peppermint. It's pretty good." Sam took a sip from his own cup, and then hesitated, his eyes darting to Castiel's and away again as he pushed a lock of hair behind his ear. "Guys don't really wear hair clips that much, Cas," he said, shrugging under his heavy brown coat. "At least not…um. Yeah. But thanks…you know. For thinking of me."

Castiel frowned down at the plastic lid of his cup. "I liked your hair clips yesterday, Sam," he said.

This time Sam's ears turned red, too, just poking up through his hair as he ducked his head. But before he disappeared behind the curtain of his bangs, Castiel thought he saw his companion fighting back a smile, so he decided the flush was all right this time.

As they walked among the tables, their shoulders bumping when they stepped to one side to let other pedestrians pass, Sam explained what he had learned from the woman at the coffee cart. There had been a few accidents since the craft fair started the weekend before, but none that seemed to suggest a poltergeist—children slipping on patches of ice, a few minor thefts, and one whole table of pottery ruined when the dog that had been leashed to the table leg tried to take off running after a pigeon, but nothing unexplained or particularly malicious. They had walked most of the craft fair now without the bell in Sam's pocket responding to anything; he had felt a faint buzz just as he was paying for his coffee, but that turned out to be a text message from Dean, demanding that they bring pizza home when they were done buying friendship bracelets or whatever from the other hippie girls. Sam admitted that he thought the craft fair was probably a false lead, and that there was no reason to stay—but he kept walking along all the same, sipping peppermint hot chocolate and pausing every once in a while to look at something, and when they reached the end of the tables they doubled back again instead of heading for the car, Sam ducking to avoid a low string of Christmas lights hung between the snow-dusted trees. Castiel did not like the peppermint hot chocolate, but he did like the way the knuckles of his empty hand kept brushing Sam's, the soft grind of their bones fitting together before they slid away, each place that they touched seeming, for a moment, more real than the rest of him. Castiel edged a little closer, so that it happened almost every step; Sam glanced at him, but he didn't move away.

They were almost at the end of the second row when Sam stopped, his attention caught by something on one of the tables. Castiel turned back to see Sam reaching out to touch a large ornament, one meant to go on top of a Christmas tree: the figure of a woman in a white dress, her blond hair bound up in ringlets around her face. It took Castiel a moment to realize she was meant to be an angel, though she looked nothing like angels as he knew them. Her dress was soft fabric, possibly silk, and her face seemed to be porcelain, each line of her blue eyes and gentle smile painstakingly painted to fit the shape of the pottery—but what Sam had reached for were her wings, made of real white feathers and flickering at her back in the soft afternoon breeze. Sam cupped the wing in the cradle of his fingers and ran his thumb from crown to tip, careful not to brush the feathers the wrong way, and suddenly Castiel was back in Bobby Singer's kitchen, warm arms around his neck as Sam whispered a wish into his ear. Sam looked back at him and gave an indefinable smile, but left his fingertips where they were, buried in the long white wing.

"I like angels. They're just…they're so beautiful," Sam said, tipping his head to one side.

Castiel had a feeling Sam meant representations of angels, angels as humans saw them, the ornament under his hand—but Sam wasn't looking at the ornament, and Castiel felt suddenly inadequate, for the first time in his eternal existence, because there was nothing beautiful about angels, nothing that deserved the expression on Sam's face. Castiel shook his head.

"Man is infinitely more so," he replied. Sam just smiled, like he didn't believe him. He turned back to the angel on the table, running his fingers down her wing once more—then he dropped his hand and stepped away, moving into the crowd as his eyes caught Castiel's.

"Let's walk the first row one more time, and then we'll head back. Dean's probably having conniptions by now."

Castiel trailed after Sam through the crowd, his hot chocolate cup cold in his hand. He wanted to tell Sam what he had been thinking, as his wings came unbound in Bobby Singer's kitchen—that he had never wrapped his wings around anyone, had never even thought about it, didn't even know if he could—but that he wanted to now, to fold Sam in his wings and hold him close, closer than his arms ever could. That if it were possible, he would let Sam bury his hands in his wings, into the deepest part of him, so far beyond flesh and bones that were made from nothing but dust. He wanted more than that with Sam, so much more. But he didn't know how to say any of it, not in words that Sam would understand. He watched Sam's back as the young man walked a few steps ahead of him. Then he closed the distance between them and locked their hands together, twining his fingers through the gaps in Sam's, and hoped that Sam would understand something from that. The rest he would find a way to explain, in time.


	6. December 5

 

**December 5  
**

Sam lifted his booted feet high, crunching through the deep snow that had accumulated in the Gerbers' backyard. The lawn between what Sam assumed to be a huge flower box and the basketball court slanted downward slightly, and most of it was shaded by a huge elm with a painted wooden tree house in the forked branches. The tree's shadow had left the snow deep and untouched by the warming sun.

Sam had on the blue windbreaker and snowman scarf again, and had added his own heavy navy gloves. They made his fingers thick and clumsy around the plastic tub that he was carrying, making his way up the snow-covered hill toward the edge of the flower box where he could just see green plastic sticking through the snow.

Earlier that day, Sam had walked around the local sledding hill, off and on fingering the golden bell through his pocket and watching kids in hats and gloves pushed down the steep white incline on plastic sleds. He hadn't wanted to get too close, just in case the bell in his own pocket could cause some kind of problem. After twenty minutes of listening to high-pitched shrieks and watching the puffy snow-coated figures wipe out against each other, into bystanders, and even into passing dogs on long leashes Sam had decided the place was clear. It had less the feel of a Christmas hub and more that of a normal park.

Dean and Cas had still been gone when he stamped his feet against the snowman doormat and creaked open the heavy door. Sam hadn't been surprised. Dean had accused him of hogging the angel that morning as they made their plans. pointing out the ice rink and the craft fair—where he also charged Sam with _lingering_. He drew it out like an accusation. Sam hadn't really been able to think of anything to defend himself, except maybe that he honestly hadn't thought Dean wanted the angel with him—he was so fond of calling Castiel a creeper and a stalker and telling him to back off.

Sam had opened and closed his mouth a few times and then looked over to Castiel, who had been frowning but said nothing. It had all become a little clearer to the tall hunter when Dean brandished an advertisement he had found in the local paper for a Christmas Happy Hour being held at the Baker Street Pub that advertised a drinking contest—but by that point Dean was already happily spinning the car keys around his finger and leading Cas toward the door. And part of Sam was still reeling from the thought that he was cutting his brother off from his guardian angel. His relationship with Castiel was _never_ to interfere with his brother's connection with the angel—that was one of the cardinal rules Sam had set for himself.

So upon returning unsuccessful, he had puttered around the Gerbers' for a while, cleaning up towels from the floor of the master bathroom and wiping down the counters. In the end he had opened the refrigerator on a whim, going through the drawers and finding that the Gerbers' had left a number of vegetables that weren't looking so good anymore, as well as a container of black beans stuck in the corner of a drawer that the hunter wasn't sure the Gerbers' even remembered.

Sam had idly remembered somewhere in Castiel's explanation, that first day, there being mention of a compost bin. The tall hunter laid the produce on the counter and leaned over the sink, pushing a strand of hair behind his ear as he squinted out the window. The sun was sparkling against the snow and the crystal star swayed gently back and forth beside him. His breath fogged up the window almost immediately, and he had to wipe a hand across it to see. After a moment he was able to spot the corner of the wide green bin, sitting next to the flower box and partially covered by a layer of hard crystal snow.

So he had hurried into some warm things and emptied all the vegetables and the beans into a deep plastic tray he had spotted on top of the cabinet, and whose true purpose was a mystery anyways. And that was how he found himself with carrots and beans and a few sticks of celery rolling around on the tray as he trudged up the hill, his steps slipping every so often as he hit a patch of slick, packed snow hiding under the top layer.

Sam was almost to the top of the hill when the tread of his boot skidded over what he could only imagine was ice from the complete lack of traction. The hunter went down hard on one knee, reaching out to grab the flower box for balance. The tray rolled to the side, tipping over and sending a few pieces of produce flying into the snow.

Sam cursed silently as he immediately felt the cold snow melting into the leg of his jeans. Making a quick decision, he set aside the tray, brushing his navy gloves against his knees and knocking snow from the cuff of his boot before it could fall inside. The one saving grace was that no one had seen him fall while trying to carry out a trip a to the compost bin; he had given Dean enough ammo for teasing in the previous few days to last the entire Christmas season already.

Sam shook his head, letting a smile drift across his face. He knew his brother didn't mind nearly as much as he was pretending about the Gerbers'. Dean had been lukewarm on the holidays, particularly after their father had died, and since Hell, it usually took—if he could forgive himself for the expression—an act of God, to make his brother take a break of any kind these days. But there were fewer lines around Dean's eyes, more of Harold Gerber's top shelf alcohol in his stomach, and a lot of laughter—most of it admittedly at Sam as Cas's expense, but still... complaining, after all, was maybe Dean's favorite pastime of all.

Sam couldn't help but feel this was all thanks to Cas—and then for one wistful moment he wondered if this was Dean's guardian angel making this happen. Maybe he had been hogging the angel. And maybe part of him wanted to keep doing it…

Sam shook his head, clapping his gloves together to get rid of the snow and looking around for the vegetables that had escaped the tray. He spotted a curved piece of celery and bent down. His fingers closed around it just as he noticed a long carrot sticking straight out of the snow next to the tray. It made him smile for a completely different reason. He tossed the celery on the tray and squatted down to gather the rest.

When he was small he had made snowmen with carrot noses. Huge snowmen—or so he had thought at six years old—and he had given them whatever odds and ends the Winchester's had from their motel/rental/abandoned building of the week. But it was almost always easy to get ahold of an unwanted carrot. The tall hunter wrinkled his nose a little bit as he ran a gloved finger over the mostly unblemished surface of the orange vegetable, remembering times when he had dug through the dumpster behind a restaurant for a properly triangular specimen that was sometimes already ripe—he wasn't sure his father or Dean had ever known that part. He found it rather distasteful himself now, but as a kid he had known that snowmen needed noses, and names, and sometimes even props.

Sam felt a sudden flush down his back, and also a strong sense of nostalgia that tugged at his stomach. He glanced around the empty yard, more out of habit than any sense that he was actually being watched, and then he set the carrot gently aside and started rolling a snowball between his hands. It was much easier than the last time he remembered doing it, in part because the snow was wet and packed easily, and the slight incline made the balls easy to roll. Maybe also because now he was big enough to lift the whole base of the snowman himself instead of begging his brother.

Dean had always preferred snowball fights, and Sam had his fair share of memories of being pegged in the face with a cold shower of snow, and one particularly vivid memory of Dean trying to lift a huge crusty layer of snow above his head to crush his younger brother, and the way it had broken apart into his face as he looked up at it. Of course, that had become a snow fight.

Sam thunked the base of the snowman into place, trying to judge the size and starting on the middle portion. Of course, Dean hadn't always showed much maturity with the snowman thing, often taking the noses that Sam painstakingly sought from their faces and shoving them into their crotches instead. Once he had even found a pair of golf balls to stick in next to the carrot, and both boys had gotten in trouble with the neighbors.

Sam stacked the next piece of the snowman, satisfied that it reached just above his waist, and then started on the last. He felt a little childish, but also strangely elated. Maybe he was still just being buoyed by the season, by the fact that ice skating had been so much fun, and that peppermint hot chocolate seemed to taste like Christmas, especially when he watched Castiel take a tentative sip and then fix his gaze on Sam with the soft expression the hunter had decided was a smile.

The head wasn't perfectly round, as Sam set it on top of the body, but after adjusting it around a bit and packing snow into the gaps to stick it firmly to the rest, Sam decided it was better this way, longer and slightly more face-like. The neck was a little pudgy, so Sam started by unwinding the scarf from his own neck and putting it on the snowman. He then stomped over to the base of the elm, swishing his hands around into the snow until he came up with two sticks that met his satisfaction. He broke off all the unnecessary twigs and branches, sticking them into the side as arms. One was significantly longer than the other, and had only two craggly fingers that reminded Sam of all kinds of things not related to snowmen, but he left them anyway, digging around in his produce tray for the face.

A pair of olives made perfect—if somewhat beady—eyes, and after a moment Sam pawed through to the find the curved piece of celery for a green smile. He then took hold of the carrot, burying it into the center of the face. Sam stepped back, shaking his hair out and holding the tray to his chest as he stared at the snowman smiling at him.

He hoped that Dean and Cas were having a good time at the pub, and that Dean wasn't having Castiel enter the drinking contest in order to cheat them to a win. The image of the angel flashed through Sam's mind again, and he looked down at the tray, running his hands idly through the rejected vegetables. A single black bean stuck to the finger of his glove. Sam lifted it up in front of his face and then brushed it off, picking it up again more carefully between his thumb and forefinger.

He approached the snowman again, taking the bean and burying it halfway into the snow near the celery mouth. Then he grabbed another and another, shoving them in until the snowman had a chin full of black bits of bean stubble. A small chuckle escaped Sam as he returned the green smile his creation was giving him. An idea striking him, Sam left the tray, making his way back toward the Gerbers' kitchen to retrieve the flat, plastic package he had found in the cabinet while exploring.

He wiped his feet hastily, moving as quickly as possible and gathering a few other things before heading back out. Sam had no idea what the wide sheets of seaweed were for—or at least he had no idea how to make them into sushi and couldn't really imagine any other use for them. He pulled his gloves off, letting them flutter to the snow so that he could tear open the package.

The seaweed was brittle in his hands, and crackled as he pulled it out, but mostly it had a dark color that looked sometimes black and then green when the light hit it. Sam wasn't really sure what he was doing, but he ripped at the sheet until it was in much smaller strips and then began plastering them over the snowman's head, glad to find that they got sticky in the wetness of the snow. When he was finished he was staring at a greenish-black-haired snowman with stubble.

Sam reached down, lifting his own light brown coat—the closest thing to tan that he had—and working it around the fat bulb of snow, forcing the sticks through the sleeves. Sam sat back, retrieving his gloves and working them on as he leaned against the flower box. After a moment, he worked open the partially frozen green lid of the compost, tossing the rest of the produce after one more quick perusal, and setting the tub aside.

The tall hunter bit his lip. The snowman really only needed one thing now—wings—but Sam wasn't really sure how to go about that. They wouldn't look right if he made them out of snow, but if he tried to use sticks or plants of any sort, Sam had a feeling with the beady olive eyes and the beans all over its face, it would just end up looking demonic.

Sam rubbed his hand together absently, deep in thought. He stared into the olive eyes, imagining intense blue instead, the strong hand in his, and he tried to imagine a pair of wings, soft and feathery on the angel's back. He tried to picture what Castiel would look like, spreading his massive wings, and whether the sun would sparkle against them like it did the white snow.

"Sam."

The voice startled the tall hunter, and he scrambled up, kicking the plastic tray that had been lying by his feet. He heart lurched into his chest as it started to slide away down the hill like a mini sled, and he watched a graceful hand reach down, stopping it with the tips of his fingers and then lifting it. The angel held the tray up as he walked effortlessly up the hill to where Sam stood.

"Hey, Cas," Sam greeted. The angel looked slightly ruffled, making Sam wonder just what his brother and Cas had gotten up to in the bar, or more like what Dean had gotten up to and dragged Cas into.

The inquiry was on the tip of his tongue when he realized that Castiel was looking past him, gaze fixed on the snowman Sam had been making. There was an intense look of scrutiny on the angel's face as he stared at the produce packed into the head.

Sam felt his ears turning red, realizing for the first time exactly what he had been doing. He hadn't thought about the angel, or especially his brother, coming home, and that his creation would be standing for all to see. Castiel's eyes narrowed and he took a step closer. It made the tall hunter want to kick the snowman in like he was busting down a door and then stamp the evidence into the snow.

"Uh, Cas…" Sam started slowly, shifting his boots. The angel snapped up, his gaze smoothing back out into its usual blank expression. "About the snowman…" Castiel nodded briefly.

"It is very unique, Sam," the angel said. "Different from all of the snowmen I have seen pictured." Sam's heart did a little flip-flop, and part of him worried that Cas was just shining him on. But the logical part of him insisted that Cas wouldn't even know what that meant. A sigh of relief passed through the hunter, and a swell of warmth, because Castiel was now standing practically next to the snowman depiction of himself and he honestly had no clue. Sam could feel the flush in his cheeks and he couldn't help but laugh at the image they made. Then he heard a very familiar voice from the deck behind him.

"Oh hell no, Sam!"

The tall hunter craned his neck back to look at his brother. Dean had walked over and was hanging partway over the railing of the deck, and it was clear from his expression that he knew _exactly_ what kind of snowman his brother had made.

"Dean," Sam greeted, resigned to the fact that it was too late to bury the snowman in a shallow, icy grave. His brother leaned down suddenly, the snowy railing blocking him from Sam's view for a moment, but the tall hunter could still hear his slightly muffled voice.

"What I am about to do, I do for your own good, Sam," Dean warned, immediately making him nervous. Castiel also seemed perturbed, taking a step toward Sam just as Dean popped out from behind the railing with a snowball in hand.

Sam's brother really was a crack shot with his snowballs, which was how Sam knew without question that he had been aiming for the snowman, and Castiel had merely stepped in the way when he moved toward Sam. Still, the wet snowball hit the angel square in the chest with a slightly wet squelch, and burst into pieces, leaving a circular impact pattern of snow.

Castiel looked slowly down at his chest in total bewilderment, and then up at Dean. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. Dean just grinned, hanging even farther out over the wooden railing.

"I guess you know what this means…" his brother said, with a familiar wicked grin. Then he ducked back behind the railing again. "Snowball fight!" he shouted loudly, popping up with another white projectile and leaving Sam to grab the clueless Castiel and drag him behind the flower box.

Sam felt a certain exhilaration as he watched the snowman take a snowball directly in his celery mouth, and felt his heart racing as he sat shoulder to shoulder with the angel behind the tall flower box. He inched over to the edge, taking a quick, calculating glance at his brother's position on the porch, and then ducking back as a snowball exploded against the corner where his head had been, sending up a shower of snow that he could feel speckling his hair.

"You leave me no choice but to destroy that abomination," Dean crowed out over the lawn, pegging the snowman with another hit that knocked some of the seaweed off its head, leaving a bald patch. "Cause if I move that carrot, he wouldn't be dickless, now would he?"

Sam rolled his eyes, and then turned to Castiel, who was sitting stiffly beside him, his gaze focused curiously on the tall hunter. Then Sam smiled, and let out a puff of laugh that hung in the air between them. Because Dean thought he had the advantage, with the high ground and Sam having to cover Cas and explain the details of a snowball fight—but his brother wasn't counting on one important thing. Sam had never been more than a lousy shot with a snowball, but he just bet that once he'd caught the angel up to speed, he'd be a highly accurate snowball pitcher. Sam leaned over to whisper in Castiel's ear with a smile. He was finally going to win one of these snowball fights.

.x.

Eleven months after his assignment to the Winchesters, Castiel was no longer surprised by Dean's proclivity toward needless destruction. He had wondered, from time to time, if its origin was violence or just restlessness—he had watched the hunter tear up receipts and other papers, ripping them into unreadable scraps and leaving them to litter the stained floors of diners or motels, wherever the Winchesters happened to be. When research bored him Dean snapped pencils between his fingers or pulled page after page from long yellow writing pads and crumpled the pieces deliberately against his palms, filling the room with the crackle of paper collapsing into itself.

Both Winchesters crushed their beer cans, but the method was different—Sam simply bent the soft metal in the squeeze of his fingers, but Dean preferred to place his cans on the ground, and then bring the sole of his shoe down from the top, flattening it with one snap into a thin metal disk. Once when Sam had been out late and Dean had been drinking alone, the older Winchester had raved to Castiel about a house of animals and held an empty beer can up to his forehead, bidding the angel to smash it. Castiel had complied eventually, when his patience expired, though he spared a moment to calculate the exact pressure necessary to crush the small metal object before he moved. The can had flattened easily, and so had Dean, knocked out by the force of the blow; Castiel had healed the quickly swelling red ring on his forehead but left him unconscious, and then departed in search of Sam. And of course just earlier that day, Dean had taken it upon himself to destroy the strange snowman Sam had created in the backyard, knocking the pieces of produce one by one into the deep snow.

That Dean's nature drove him to wreak such damage against inanimate things Castiel knew by now. It didn't stop him from frowning as he watched the destruction in this particular case.

He and Sam had spent the evening at a fundraiser for children's Christmas activities, the proceeds donated to an organization Sam referred to as Girl Scouts. They had uncovered no bells, but Sam had found something else: a small sculpture called a gingerbread house that Castiel had been informed was made entirely out of edible objects, and which Sam explained was very Christmas. The angel's understanding of human art was admittedly very limited, but he found it difficult to comprehend the purpose of creating something ultimately so transitory; but Sam's smile had suggested that there was something more to it, and Castiel hadn't questioned him, not even when the hunter held the structure out to him for safekeeping.

Castiel had held the small house on his lap through the drive home, studying the slanted roof covered in multiple rows of small round candies marked with the letters M&M. Differently shaped candies framed a small line that led to a thin graham cracker set in the front of the house, and bisected boxes had been drawn onto the side in white paste, the edges of the icing jagged and imprecise. In front of the structure were pasted approximations of dark-skinned people, made of the same brown substance as the house; their faces reminded Castiel of the many depictions of snowmen in the Gerbers' residence, with simple oval eyes and long smiles.

Standing in the kitchen beside the window to the backyard, the angel considered for a moment the snowman that Sam had constructed while he had accompanied Dean to a bar that day. Nothing was left of it now except a few disordered piles of snow, evidence of the chaos of its demolition, but the strangeness of its construction lingered in Castiel's mind—a snowman with a face somehow fundamentally different from all the others in the house, from the simplicity of a long, empty smile. So many things that Sam touched were different in that way—more complicated, more careful. Perhaps it was that air of hesitance that made the things Sam touched seem more precious than the sum of their parts. Perhaps that was the reason he found himself annoyed with something he should have expected—Dean's instinct, always, for thoughtless destruction.

Castiel turned away from the window to face the dining room table again, where Dean sat, demolishing the gingerbread house. It seemed only moments after Sam left him to take a shower when Dean ascended the stairs and noticed the edible structure, and then his lips had stretched back in a grin, one Castiel knew to be wary of after all this time. Dean had slid into a chair at the table and dug his hand directly into the house, wrenching off one entire side of the roof and gnashing it between his teeth. He made similarly short work of the soft candies in a line, the chimney embroidered with lines of icing and a few of the brown people out of the yard. One of the gingerbread legs had not detached with the rest of the flat body and was still lodged in the white paste under the crumbling left side of the house. It seemed somehow grotesque to the angel now. Only when he had picked through the wreckage one last time did Dean finally withdraw his ravenous fingers from the broken house, tipping his chair back on two legs with a satisfied smile.

"Wow. It has been forever since I've gone to town on one of those things. Eating little people just never gets old," Dean announced, fixing Castiel with a grin made wider by a chocolate smear extending from the corner of his lips. His head lolled back against the carved crown of the chair and he opened his mouth to say something—but suddenly his expression was shifting to one of shock, eyes wide as he flailed in the chair and then tumbled backward, landing hard against the wooden floor. Dean cursed and reached up to clutch the back of his head, though it was not a serious injury, Castiel could tell at a glance. As he crossed from the window to help the hunter to his feet, he considered, fleetingly, how simple it would have been to catch Dean before his chair hit the ground—then his eyes tracked back to the ruins of the gingerbread house, and he dismissed the thought, taking a firm grasp on Dean's hand. The older hunter had probably brought the accident on himself.


	7. December 6

**December 6  
**

When they had managed to score two bells on practically their first day, Dean had thought this whole thing would be a piece of cake. But since then, they were almost three days bell-less and counting. And Dean wasn't trying to be Scrooge, or the Grinch, or that homeless green puppet who lived in the garbage can, but this whole thing would be seriously easier if these bells caused serious accidents, like death. Those never went unreported.

Sam had spent half a day on the Gerbers' computer, searching through his prophet beauty tips and mom blogs and shoe sales to no avail—and how come all the info sites were covered in sparkles and pink and house party tips, anyway? Why did girls have the skinny on the supernatural? Of course, if that _were_ true it could explain why Sam was so freaking gung-ho about this—clearly playing house was helping him develop his woman's intuition.

Sam had thrown up his hands finally, pushing away from the computer with a helpless shrug. "I just don't know," he admitted. "I've got nothing. This sucks." His brother was worrying his lip between his teeth the way he always did when he was dwelling, or trying to blame himself for something ridiculous—like some angel fiasco. As far as Dean was concerned, those dicks were still responsible for their own bells. He smiled.

"No, you suck, Sam," Dean said, slapping his brother's back lightly. "In fact, you know what, you suck bells…" He made a face after getting to the end, which Sam returned him double. Dean just shrugged. "We can get the angels back their bells—their balls, on the other hand…" Sam chased him down the hallway, trying to swat him in the arm.

Dean really was thinking of reclassifying the word _bell_ , though, or at least trying to think through to the end before he just plunked it into his sentences. Just earlier that day, he had gone to an antique shop on a whim—hey, an ancient bell was the kind of thing those people bought, right? Well, the woman behind the counter had been an antique, too, with completely white hair and a floral print dress that fit her like a burlap sack; still, she welcomed Dean with a smile, and she had a Santa hat on. Dean had grinned at her, putting on his most charming face. "I'm just looking to get my hands on some old bells."

Sam had warned Dean that sometimes his charming face was more like a leering face, but Dean had brushed it off as Sam having his panties in a bunch. That old woman had her panties in a bunch, too—she had chased Dean out of the shop with a broom, and then threatened to call the cops if he ever came back. _Bells_ was apparently just a dirty word.

He'd been forced to accompany Sam and Cas instead, on their little excursion to a "bell-likely" spot that Sam had identified. Fucking "bell-likely" spots were the corniest things Sam could find, apparently.

The three of them were in a little shop called Color Me Mine, and the second Dean entered he had known he was back in the suburban twilight zone Sam was trying to live. The walls were covered with shelves of ceramic kitchenware, plaques, and statues, while the front windows were filled with badly painted versions of the same. It was some kind of art prison, with a rainbow wall of brushes and paints with names like seafoam swirl, apricot pink pear, and sunny-honey yellow.

Speaking of sunny-honey yellow…Sam seemed to have glommed onto the color in more ways than one. Dean had said _Christo_ under his breath no less than ten times since arriving in this hippie town, but now he was seriously considering whether to try a full-blown exorcism. Angel-crush Samantha was a riot, but at some point, he wanted his Sammy back.

Dean pushed his paintbrush aimlessly through the colors on his plastic palette. They had mixed long ago, but that was okay because nothing was going to make sickly-paisley-daisy look better, and the cherry-delicious something came off as pink anyway. Dean vaguely remembered the counter girl explaining something about the colors and the glazing process, but he had tuned the explanation out in favor of giving her a once-over. She was pretty in a kind of not-all-there hippie way that made Dean think Mile High didn't just refer to the elevation of the city.

He slopped another brushful of paisley-cherry-daisy-pink onto the ashtray he had selected to paint. The shop was packed with teenagers, families, and even a few couples—which was sickening. Nobody out of kindergarten should have an art date. Dean glanced over, disgusted, to where his brother and Cas sat. Sam had a ridiculous Golden Retriever statue with a Santa hat, which he was carefully coloring in a soft yellow while smiling at the angel. Castiel had a spoon holder in front of him. Dean didn't know why his brother insisted on getting Cas something, too—the angel probably didn't know what the hell a spoon holder was in the first place, and all he'd managed to do so far was drip the same Easter yellow paint that Sam was using on Christmas doggy on the piece while staring unblinkingly at Sam.

Dean still wasn't sure how that failed to creep his brother out—but quite the contrary, Sam was smiling right back at the angel, telling him something about Golden Retrievers. They were stuck with the Gerbers' white-picket fence, but Dean drew the line at dogs.

Deeming the bottom dry enough, Dean grabbed a clean brush, covering it with black paint and putting the finishing touch inside the ashtray. Dean blew on the words with a grin, then extended his foot to poke Sam under the table.

"Hey, Sammy." Dean waggled his eyebrows as his brother looked over in annoyance, pulling his leg away under the table. "Check it out!" He held up the ashtray, revealing the black words he had scrawled across the bottom.

**I Like Hot Butts!**

Sam's face took on a pinched look, while Cas just blinked on in confusion—he always had to be led by the fucking hand, and even then sometimes he didn't get it. Dean wondered, not for the first time, if Cas's humor translator were permanently broken.

"Because it's an ashtray, Cas," he said, grinning while Castiel's face took on that considering look that meant his robot brain was computing. Sam understood, though, well enough to roll his eyes.

"Real mature," Sam congratulated, but Dean just waggled his eyebrows again. He was fucking hilarious, and he knew it. The problem was that his audience was his bitchy younger brother and the ultimate straight man.

"I'll show you mature." Dean grabbed the paintbrush he had left in the pinkish-whatever paint and reached over to smear a long stripe down the back of the Golden Retriever Sam had been painstakingly painting yellow.

"Dean!" Sam protested, making some sort of motion with his hand over the brush his brother was holding—like he was going to, what? Start a thrown-down in a pottery shop over some lame dog? When the hunter looked up his brother and the angel had that double bitchface thing going that always made him feel like he was trapped in a gum commercial.

"It's not like we're doing this for real," he defended. Dean sat back and spun his ashtray around to admire it. He could see Castiel frowning in that perpetually confused way, and as usual Sam was falling all over himself to explain. Apparently even skunk-striped Lassie couldn't deter him.

"It's just a phrase, Cas," Sam said, pushing a piece of hair behind his ear. "He means that it doesn't matter—that we're not doing this seriously. And he's right." Sam turned at that point to give Dean a significant look. "But we're still here for a reason, and we should probably stick around awhile to see if anything happens. So, in the meantime, I'm _really_ going to fix my dog."

Sam leaned down and started blowing gently on the paint Dean had smudged to dry it faster. Castiel looked at Dean a moment longer, then turned back to staring at Sam. That was boring.

Then an idea struck Dean like a bolt from a malfunctioning satellite. He set his stuff aside, getting up and moving around the table. Sam was watching out of the corner of his eyes, Dean noted with some satisfaction as he pulled a chair right next to Castiel, slinging an arm over the angel's shoulder.

"It looks like you could use some help with yours, huh?"

Castiel had turned as Dean took the seat right next to him. He looked vacantly between Dean and the mostly blank piece of pottery in front of him and then nodded tentatively.

"So what've we got here. A spoon holder—we can work with that." Sam shot Dean a warning look, which he ignored. He reached down, using a rag to wipe off a gob of yellow pooling beneath the angel's brush, and then lifted the piece. It was plain really, just made to look like a huge spoon with a solid base. Of all the freaking pieces to give the angel. Dean looked over at his brother hunched in the seat, dabbing at the stripe Dean had made while shooting looks out of the corner of his eyes.

"I got it!" Dean said with a snap. He set the piece in front of the angel again. "Right here," he pointed at the center of the scoop. "You write _I Love Spooning_."

"Dean," Sam bitched, putting his stuff aside. Cas obviously didn't understand the reference, but he had learned enough over the last year to not be as willing a stooge—which was a shame, really. But Sam was all hot and bothered again, and that could be fun for relieving boredom too. Dean put a hand on Castiel's shoulder and went on, but he fixed his eyes firmly on his brother.

"And on the handle of this _ridiculous, oversized_ spoon, you can put _I have to be the big spoon._ " Castiel shrugged his hand off, scooting his chair away from Dean.

"Really?" Sam asked, shaking his head.

"What?" Dean asked with an innocent shrug. "This thing is meant to _cup spoons from behind_ —don't you think Cas needs to learn about that?" Sam was all but puffing out his cheeks, and Dean could just imagine the cartoon steam coming out of his ears while some thermometer behind him filled with boiling red. "Unless you think he needs to learn about the role of the little spoon…" Dean left that last hanging.

Sam's mouth fell open, and his finger flew upward, but before Dean had the chance to hear whatever lovesick drivel his brother was going to spew, there was a sudden crash, and a jab down his hip where that stupid bell was stuffed in his pants pocket. The skin at his side continued to prickle, and a quick glance showed that Sam had jerked a hand over the pocket of his jacket.

Dean let his eyes scan across the room to where a shelf had apparently come loose, falling forward and dumping a whole set of unpainted vases to the floor. A couple of children had shrieked, but it didn't seem like anyone had been close by. The shop girl hurried over, assuring people that everything was fine and urging everyone to stay in their seats while she retrieved a dustpan and broom.

Sam was also studying the room, and it took a moment before his brother's gaze fixed on him. Sam shook his head a little, indicating he couldn't spot anything either. The hairs on the back of Dean's neck were still standing up, but the prickling had stopped. There was definitely a bell here somewhere, though; they were just going to have to search for it.

"So should we look around?" Dean nodded toward the back area of the shop where the girl was still dutifully sweeping up, but Sam shook his head.

"No, there's too many families—kids." Sam gestured around to the other tables. "It'll be safer to come back tonight."

Dean snorted, rocking back in his seat. "Safer to leave the accident-causing poltergeist bell?" he muttered.

"Safer than trying to mess with it in a shop full of breakable items," Sam pointed out flatly. Dean just let out a frustrated puff of air—he hated his brother especially when he made sense.

"Well, at least now we can blow this lame-ass joint." Dean was already fingering the car keys in his pocket and imagining the shell tub at the Gerbers' when he met the eyes of Captain Buzzkill and his trusty stick-in-the-ass wingman.

"Oh, what now?" he whined.

"We should probably stick around at least long enough to make sure the poltergeist isn't getting worse," Sam insisted.

There was that damn logic Dean hated so much. The hunter slumped back into the chair next to Cas, making a face, which Sam returned with a saccharine smile.

"Here, Dean," he offered, reaching over to push the spoon holder in front of his brother with his freakishly long arm. "You can keep worrying about _spoon sizes_. Cas, you can help me with the dog." Sam shifted his chair so that the angel could move right next to him, and Dean stuck his brush moodily in the black paint, preparing to write _Big Spoons are Bitchy_.

.x.

The pottery store looked creepier at night, Sam decided, as he moved as quietly as possible through the room. The chairs had been turned upside down on top of the tables, their legs creating a forest of wooden sticks. The Christmas cheer was gone: the garlands faded into black shadows, and the ceramic figures' eyes sunken into their white cheeks. Sam shivered and tugged at the sleeves of his button-down. Privately he wondered sometimes, if he hadn't been raised a hunter with the knowledge of everything that could be lurking in the shadows, if he just would have been afraid of the dark.

It was cold in the shop. The heat had been turned off hours ago, and while there didn't seem to be any residential buildings in the area, they had decided to keep the lights off. Sam really hoped there would be no problems getting hold of this bell.

Dean, in boredom, had finished their Color Me Mine visit by painting a face on the side of his hand with a moustache and big cartoon eyes and proceeded to flap his thumb up and down, making it talk to Cas in a terrible British accent.

But still, the entire experience had been fun. And he now had another memory of the angel to tuck away and hold onto—with a paintbrush in his hand and a look of consternation, filling in red on a Christmas hat, their hands brushing as they worked together. And then of course there was Mr. Moustache—even Sam hadn't been able to escape the ridiculousness, and they had laughed their way out. It was a nice establishment, and Sam understood why it had been so highly recommended as a Christmas activity. It would be a shame to break any of the things here.

"Remember what you're supposed to do, Cas?" Sam heard Dean's low voice from near the entrance, where he was putting away his lock-picking tools. It would have been faster if he'd let Sam pick the lock, but Dean had pitched a fit. Initially his brother had wanted to kick down the door, but Sam had vetoed that. In the end, Sam stood outside rubbing his arms and glancing around to make sure no one was watching while Dean cussed out the lock and insisted he still remembered how to do this.

When Sam looked over, he could just make out Castiel nodding solemnly to his brother. "I will destroy the pieces we created earlier so as to leave no trace of our presence," the angel repeated dutifully. Sam felt something halfway between a smile and a sigh touch his lips. Cas was stock still, all attention fixed on Dean as he waited for confirmation.

"Not a trace," Dean agreed, and Sam could see the white of his teeth as he flashed a shit-eating grin. The tall hunter rolled his eyes. He'd already decided to let this one go. For the most part, Sam tried to play referee when it came to Dean and the resident angel, calling out the fouls as he saw them, but this seemed mostly harmless. Or in this case, given that Dean wanted their ugly pieces of pottery gone, it might actually be a blessing. Bobby would hardly appreciate a badly painted dog statue, and even less Dean's inappropriate additions.

Sam shook his head, watching as Cas disappeared into the backroom where presumably the kiln and all the pieces waiting to be fired were. For the most part, the angel had grown wise to Dean's "special tasks" and "super important errands" over the last year. Still, Sam gave Dean a stern look when their eyes met before turning back to the shelves against the wall. Dean flipped him the bird, displacing a few chairs as he pushed his way to the corner where the shelf had fallen.

The counter in front of Sam held a towel with a number of brushes laid out to dry on top of it. More brushes sat with their tips up in painted ceramic cups, and an old coffee tin appeared to be full of little bits of sponges. Sam pushed a few things around, reaching past extra paint bottles and empty glasses. There was no bell.

Sam frowned at a scraping sound, looking over to where Dean was moving pieces of the unpainted pottery around roughly, their bases scraping against the shelves. The noise was oddly loud in the silence, and it made the hairs on the back of Sam's neck stand up. He held a hand over the bell in his pocket, not wanting to feel it directly against his skin but checking to see that it was there, checking to see if it had a pulse yet.

Sam's breath came a little quicker, and with another shiver he went back to running his hand across the countertop toward the sink. There were a number of items clustered behind the faucet—various soaps, empty water glasses upside down, the _plink_ of a single drop of water escaping the hanging faucet. On the other side of the sink was a novelty bottle made out of blue glass with little pieces of jade stone set into it, and behind it something gold.

Sam's heart skipped a little with nervousness and he felt suddenly anxious, but tried to clamp down on the feeling. Of course it was the effect of the poltergeist—he knew better than to let it get to him. Sam reached to move the bottle out of the way to get a better look, but before he could even get his fingers around the blue glass it slipped, falling off the edge into the deep sink.

On instinct, Sam jerked his hand out to try to grab it. Suddenly the bell at his side was prickling and stinging so strong it felt like a needle being jabbed into his side, and that same malevolence filled the air he was trying to breathe. The rest happened so fast Sam wasn't even sure if it was real. The glass bottle broke in the sink and the stem snapped off, bouncing off the steel and slicing into the Sam's right arm.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, part of him was recognizing that the gold he had seen was just the label of another can. The rest of him was frozen, shock rippling across his kin. It was impossible, just the way the skate sliding across the rink was impossible. Sam's breaths came harder and harder.

Dean was asking if he was cleared to break stuff too, Cas was destroying their pottery, and Sam was standing over the sink, staring at the glass of the bottle stem buried in his wrist. His ears weren't working properly, suddenly fuzzed as though full of salt after a day of swimming in the ocean. He must still have been breathing, though, because he had the air to talk.

"Dean," Sam said urgently. He couldn't tell exactly what his brother answered. He was transfixed. Jagged blue glass stuck out from the tender flesh on the inside of his wrist; he couldn't tell how deep. The pain had been so sharp he almost didn't feel it at all—more like a sudden flash of fire than a cut, and that scared Sam more than anything. Even now, his wrist didn't hurt, just ached under an awful pressure.

Both he and Dean had learned to assess injuries early, to know what was serious—what was fatal. There were two important arteries in the wrist, the ulnar and the radial, and if they had been severed completely, bisected by a piece of glass…

"Dean," Sam said again, and this time he could hear the fear in his own voice. "Cas!" he cried out, and this time it was louder, desperate. If the glass was deep enough, then he was dead already, and the glass was just a tapenade preventing him from bleeding out on the floor—

Then suddenly Castiel was there. Sam sensed the brush of the trench coat on his back, and then felt one of the angel's hands on his shoulder, the other reaching for the arm he still held over the sink. Sam looked over at Castiel helplessly, his uninjured hand holding the other uselessly. Sam knew he was panicking, that he needed to calm down somehow. He fixed his gaze on the angel, focused on the blue of those depthless eyes—because Cas would never let him die, not from something like this. Something so stupid and so small.

"Cas…?" It was a whisper, and Sam wasn't even sure what he was asking. He couldn't read the angel's expression at all. Suddenly Castiel reached out, gripping the part of Sam's arm that held the glass gently between his hands.

"It is not that deep." His voice was gravely and it sounded rougher than usual, but Sam was hardly in a position to be a good judge. He felt his heart pounding a little less frantically against his ribs as he brought his other hand up to brace himself against the angel's chest.

Dean had finally noticed what had happened. "Son of a bitch!" His brother punctuated the curse by kicking a wooden cabinet, leaving a crater in the weak wood. He stepped away from the splintered wood with a curse, and then something caught his eye and he reached purposefully toward a shelf. "I got you, you fucker."

It was a high shelf, and Sam watched as his brother's hand groped around a Christmas display, a number of hand-painted crosses hanging above it. His brain was trying to make sense of what was happening, warn him about something, and the bell was prickling in his pocket all over again, making the pulse in his wrist spasm. Suddenly Sam realized what wasn't right.

"Dean, don't!" he cried out, turning to his brother. He ended up jerking his arm out of Castiel's hands—and then all the pain that had been absent came down on him all at once, his flesh burning like it had been shorn. Sam sucked air through his teeth, sagging hard against the countertop. His uninjured hand was still outstretched toward his brother, but he was too late.

Dean turned with the bell in his hand just as Sam felt the glass in his wrist twisting, burying itself deeper. He thought he could feel it this time—slicing through the arteries in his arm, severing his life with one simple cut. Someone was crying out in pain, and it took a Sam a moment to realize it was him. The malevolence was unmistakable. He felt Castiel's hands on his back, and he met the angel's eyes with desperation. Sam couldn't seem to form words, his lips moving soundlessly, but luckily the angel seemed to understand.

His hands ran over Sam's body for a moment, desperate but somehow still painfully gentle, before Sam felt the bell being removed from his pocket. He could hear Dean asking what the fuck Cas thought he was doing. The angel's answer was sharp, and in between the heavy blackness every time he blinked Sam could see Castiel yanking Dean's bell from his brother's hand and demanding the other from his pocket. It was like a flipbook happening in slides, and every time he opened his eyes things were a little different.

The last thing he remembered was the look Cas was giving him before he vanished, like he was about to lose something precious. Sam's muddled brain tried to fill in the gaps, make his mouth work well enough to promise the angel that he would help him find whatever he lost. Then the pain was suddenly, breathtakingly gone.

Sam couldn't tell if he had actually passed out, or just been so out of it he lost track of everything between the whoosh of Cas's opening wings and blinking his eyes open again. Castiel was gone, apparently by at least a few minutes. He was on the floor, leaning against one of the wooden cabinets that lined the walls, and Dean was kneeling at his side, tying a rag with bruising force around his upper arm.

"You're a fucking trouble magnet, you know that?" he was muttering angrily, but Sam recognized the worry in his voice. "What kind of a fucking Christmas call would it make to Bobby, if I had to tell him you're sorry ass was dead!" The tall hunter cleared his throat, blinking at Dean, and was rewarded when his brother froze immediately.

"You trying to cut off all the blood to my arm there?" Sam asked, wetting his lips. Now that he was awake, he could tell how tight the cloth actually was, and it sent pins and needles racing down his arm.

"Yeah, actually, I am." Dean sounded pissed, and Sam sat up a little more, trying to get a better look at his brother. "That's what a fucking tourniquet is, Sam—you know that. If that glass has…if it cut your…" He trailed off, and Sam looked down, considering his arm through hazy eyes. Dean had placed it in his lap. The wicked blue glass still stuck out at an angle and just looking at it made Sam feel a little sick, but he forced himself to try and move his fingers a little bit, watching as they curled.

"The fuck are you doing, Sam?" Dean demanded as Sam reached over and started undoing the tight knot.

"S'not that deep," Sam bit out. "If I can move my fingers, the nerve is intact, and that means the artery is, too." Dean looked unsure, but he helped pull the rag away from his arm.

"You good to get out of here, man?" Dean asked, standing up and dusting off his pants. "'Cause that's gonna have to come out, and I vote the Gerbers' master bathroom, and not the floor of a kitschy paint shop with God knows what kind of chemicals lying about."

Dean pulled Sam to his feet as he spoke, careful not to grab his injured arm. He grunted at the effort of hauling his brother up. Sam gave a grateful smile, but pulled away as he got his feet under him.

"Wait," he said as Dean tried to herd him toward the door. His brother gave him an exasperated look.

"What?" Dean walked back over, placing a hand on the small of Sam's back as though readying to lever him toward the car.

"Where exactly did you pull the bell from?" Sam asked. He planted his feet firmly, trying to think back to the moment the poltergeist had gotten worse.

"I don't think that's really important right now." Dean shook his head, and his expression said he thought Sam had lost his mind.

Sam brushed his hand off. "This is important," he insisted.

Dean could be so pushy. Sam wanted more than anything to just pass out in the Impala—yank the glass that was aching and aching out of his arm—but there was something he had to confirm first.

"Fine. Over here." Dean jerked his thumb at a high shelf, watching Sam closely as he made his way over. "But you're not getting any sympathy from me when you bleed out from that thing." He motioned to the glass still sticking like shrapnel out of Sam's arm.

Sam stared at the shelf. There were statues of angels with serene faces, as well as Christmas trees and a stack of crosses—in the very back, he even saw a small nativity waiting to be painted. A quick glance at the other shelves showed that this was the only one filled with denominational holiday figures.

"Can we go now?" Dean demanded from the doorway.

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "Let's get out of here."

The Impala was parked just down the block. They kept their heads down, walking briskly, and when they arrived Dean opened the passenger-side door for Sam, waiting until he settled himself before closing it behind him.

"So what the hell was that in there?" Dean asked when he was finally situated behind the wheel of his beloved car. He turned the key while Sam massaged the skin on his arm, trying to erase the white mark where the tourniquet had been tied.

"That shelf where the bell was," Sam explained, trying to get his thoughts in order. "The angels and all those crosses—they were dampening the power of the bell."

The engine hummed, and Dean looked over his shoulder, backing the car out and pulling them onto the empty street.

"So?" he wanted to know. "Somebody placed it badly."

Sam breathed through his nose as a small jerk of the car made him move his wrist. "Or," he countered, panting a little, "somebody placed it well. That would have been the _least_ effective place of all for causing trouble with that bell—but the most effective place for trying to stop it."

Dean was barely paying attention, and he still had that worried look on his face, pinched and angry. Sam looked down at the jagged blue glass. For a poltergeist without a lot of power, whatever was behind the bells was frighteningly malicious. Not the kind of entity that tried to mitigate accidents.

"There's something else going on here." Sam looked out the window, resting his head against the glass and watching as the dark stores gave way to lighted residences and Christmas illumination. "We need to find out more about those bells."

.x.

The Christmas tree was the only light on in the Gerbers' house as Castiel stood in the midnight living room, watching Sam sleep. The white lights wound around the evergreen tree glowed softly among the branches, on the underside of the fragile glass bulbs suspended from thin wires, and on the face of the sleeping figure curled on the couch, too, his expression indistinct through the contours of light and shadow. Sam shifted a little, his lips parting and his eyelashes flickering against his cheeks; Castiel stood where he was next to the mantle and wondered what dreams had disturbed the stillness of his rest. Slowly his gaze wandered back to the tree, its dimmer reflection glowing in the glass of the softly fogged window behind it.

The tree did not have to be illuminated. He had been taught by now how to unplug it, had watched Sam reach through the evergreen boughs and locate the outlet while Dean railed about the tree being left on the first night and how there would be hell to pay if he had to flee a house fire in his boxers because Sam's Christmas spirit decided to burst into flames. Castiel hadn't understood all of Dean's complaint, but he had understood enough to accept that the tree could be dangerous, if left on too long. But he also understood, after five nights of watching Sam curl up on the wraparound couch with his elbow under his head and his eyes, always, on the sparkle of light and glass beside the fireplace, that Sam fell asleep faster and more deeply when the tree was lit up, every slow blink fixed on the illuminated evergreen boughs. Castiel was not certain what the Christmas tree meant to him. But he was not going to deny Sam whatever light he wanted to hold up against the darkness, especially not tonight.

Castiel crossed the room silently and sat down on one end of the couch, next to Sam's pillow. The wraparound couch was large enough that Sam seemed to be able to sleep on it comfortably, had assured Castiel that it was fine, though the angel had initially been perturbed by the idea that there was no bed for Sam in the Gerbers' house. It was large enough, too, that Castiel could sit beside Sam on the couch without disturbing him, and that was where he had taken to spending most nights, with the dark living room spread out before him and the soft sigh of Sam's breathing the only sound. Often he sat with a stack of books to page through, because Sam seemed distressed at the thought of him sitting up all night with nothing to do. But just as often he didn't look through the books at all, just sat in contemplation of the sleeping figure beside him and watched the air moving in and out of Sam's lungs, the way his nose crinkled before he rolled over, the way his hair fanned out dark against the white pillow. Sam might consider it nothing, but Castiel could have told him that he had sat on the world's edges for much longer than that, contemplating much less important things.

Much less important things than the two stitches sown into the flesh of Sam's wrist.

Sam mumbled and shifted onto his side, his right arm flopping down to rest over his stomach. Castiel watched him carefully. But Sam's hand fell still again, tucked into the folds of his blue and white snowflake blanket, without exposing the inside of his forearm, or the wound there bound up with rough black thread. Castiel lowered his gaze to his own hands, equally still in his lap.

He had tried to stand on the roof for a while, after the Winchesters went to sleep, because he had an affinity for high places and the clear, endless sky was a useful backdrop, sometimes, when he wanted to quiet his thoughts. But his mind kept returning to the image of the blue glass embedded in Sam's wrist, its jagged edge biting into swelling flesh, the blue of the glass sickly and dark under the layers of bloodless skin. Sam's white face as he'd struggled to hold onto the angel, one desperate hand clawing at his jacket. Dean had said they'd been lucky, standing in the Gerbers' master bathroom as he'd washed the wound and then slid the harsh black thread through the eye of a thick needle—lucky that it hadn't gone deeper, that Sam didn't need to go to a hospital, only needed two stitches, almost nothing, to help the flesh knit back together. Castiel had watched Sam wince as the needle pushed through the folds of his skin, and hadn't believed him.

On the couch, Sam turned over again. He was restless tonight; Castiel wondered if he was still in pain, in spite of the bottle of ibuprofen sitting on the side table next to the couch. He studied the curve of the tall hunter's wrist. He wanted to take it in his hand, turn it over, gaze again at the ugly black stitches marring the swollen skin a few inches down from the joint. He wanted to brush his thumb across them and make them disappear. Perhaps if the wound was gone, the memory would be, too. Castiel pressed his lips together.

Sam's fear had been understandable. He had been in shock, and in pain, and man so rarely thought clearly when confronted with those things. What Castiel didn't understand was the heartbeat that had been pounding in his own ears as he looked up into Sam's white face. The wound had not been life-threatening; he had known that at a touch, the instant he held Sam's hand between his own. And if it had been, Castiel would have healed it, whatever the cost. That was why he had been assigned to stay with the Winchesters for this mission—to act in case of emergencies. Two stitches were so much less than an emergency. They were an infinitely small thing. But even more than the glass protruding from Sam's wrist, Castiel could not forget the look in those frightened hazel eyes as Sam had stared at him, asking something, pleading to be saved—and Castiel could do nothing. He was an angel, soldier of an almighty God, and he was helpless against a fragment of broken glass. All he had been able to do was flee with the bells, and leave Sam there with that look on his face, still waiting to be saved.

Castiel had known that collecting the bells would be dangerous. But he was not sure he had realized just how penetrating his own feeling of weakness would be, to be defeated by such a small thing. Two uneven stitches repairing what he could not.

Sam breathed out and rolled onto his stomach, his right hand stretching out across the white couch cushions toward the angel beside him. Castiel studied the curl of his fingers. He lifted one hand from his lap and held it out, half-open, over Sam's, hovering so close that he could almost feel the beat of his pulse through the scant millimeters of empty air—but he didn't touch him, because Sam might wake up and he didn't want that, not when he was finally resting. Castiel let his hand linger there for a moment before he pulled it back. His eyes traced the glow of the Christmas tree on Sam's face, and then he turned his gaze to the tree itself, all the tiny bulbs glittering through its branches.

Sam had told him that the first winter evergreens were for protection, symbols of eternal life meant to ward against the devil, and that the decorations had come later. Castiel recognized the lights for what they were, just the next evolution of man's eternal candles, the entire tree a prayer for sanctuary from the darkness. The Gerbers' tree was topped by an angel, a soft-featured woman like the figure from the craft fair, in whose wings Sam had buried his fingers. Castiel glanced down at Sam's hand again, the purple swell of his wrist marred by black stitches. Then Sam breathed out and Castiel clenched his fist into the sleeve of his trench coat, and set his eyes on the glittering tree once more, effortlessly counting the pinpricks of white light.

Dean would be angry in the morning, but he would leave the tree on tonight, and let Sam sleep in the warmth of its glow. Perhaps it would keep the darkness from him better than Castiel had.


	8. December 7

**December 7**

_Sam covered his ears against the sound as the glass broke again, squeezing his eyes to the empty darkness that seemed to ooze around him. Or was it the crash of bells? The sound was jagged and biting into his wrist like glass. Sam let his hands fall, stumbling a few blind feet in any direction. He thought he saw the glass bottle sticking out of his arm for a moment, but then it was gone, breaking somewhere in the darkness beyond him._

_Sam closed his eyes, willing the scene to be different when he opened them, and this time the jagged sound was a laugh. Somewhere in the darkness was a huge mouth with wet black teeth. Sam wasn't sure if he was seeing it or just feeling when the darkness brought a crimson apple to its lips, biting into the tender flesh with a sickening crunch. A thick red line ran from the corner of the mouth as the swollen flesh gave way before it. And Sam felt the shiver of hot breath as another laugh covered him in a speckle of blood drops. A piece of apple skin fell at his feet with a wet smack, and when he reached down it was a piece of human flesh on the ground._

_His flesh, Sam realized with a panic. His arm was bleeding again, the glass was breaking again, and the jagged teeth were tearing at his skin, severing his whole hand. Sam screamed, reaching down to tear at the two black stitches. The glass was trapped under them—he had to get it out._

"Sam." _The tall hunter thought he heard his name, but it might have been the bells or the mouth, and suddenly he found his hands restrained. He screamed again, this time in panic, as the pain drove deeper through his flesh._

_And then he was being crushed against something warm, something bright that made the blackness around him fade away. The glass stopped breaking, and Sam clutched onto the solid presence, burying his fingers into folds of cloth. The mouth was the last thing to go, and Sam shivered, turning his face into the fabric he was holding onto, not watching as the razor teeth slid into a smile._

Sam's heart pounded furiously in his chest as his eyes flew open. He felt disoriented, shaky, and the first thing he became aware of was the very real pain in his wrist. For one horrible moment he thought the dream must be true—that despite the fact that he'd watched with clenched teeth while Dean yanked the glass from his skin one agonizing millimeter at a time and then flushed the wound with water, glass teeth remained, severing his hand.

His breath came hard, and he struggled, wanting to rip at the wound, clear it, but he couldn't move. The light that had embraced him within the dream still held him tightly, crushed to a chest—only now the light had human hands and wore a tan trench coat.

"Sam…" He realized that it had also been Castiel's voice penetrating the nightmare. "Sam, it is not real," the angel was saying.

"The glass," Sam protested, trying to torque his wrist from the crushing grip. "I have to get it out…"

"There is nothing in your wrist, Sam." The angel's voice was so low it was almost a whisper, and his hand slid over Sam's back as he spoke, soothing him and pressing him closer. "You will damage yourself further. Please, Sam."

It was the _please_ that did it. The word was obviously unfamiliar on the angel's tongue, and his voice had that rough quality Sam thought he had imagined in the pottery shop. He managed to shake the last of the shadows from his eyes, returning him to the soft glow of the Gerbers' family room, lit by the small, sparkling lights of the tree.

Castiel was kneeling next to the couch, and Sam realized that he must have sat up at some point, because he was being held by the angel, the fingers of his left hand white-knuckled where they were buried into the trench coat, his face pressed against the angel's chest. His breaths were still shallow, and he recognized the danger of hyperventilating in a detached, almost clinical way that he couldn't quite figure out how to apply to his situation.

"Sam, you are okay. I…" Castiel's voice paused for a moment, and Sam felt his eyes flicker upward. His head tilted ever so slightly even though all he could see was the white collar and the edge of angel's jaw. "I have you, Sam, and I will not let anything happen to you."

The words seemed to fill up some place in Sam that the glass had hollowed out. He struggled to sit up farther.

"Cas…" he breathed. His voice was slightly raw, scratchy. He slid his arms out from between them to hold the angel as tightly as he was being held, letting his fingers dig into the cloth at the other man's back. The snowflake blanket pooled into his lap. And as Sam moved his head to lie against Cas's shoulder, he found himself staring at the twinkling white lights of the tree. There was still pain in his wrist, but it had faded to a dull throb that was nothing compared to the arms around him and the heartbeat under his cheek. The little bulbs of glass made the soft shadows of evergreen branches against the white wall, and if Sam squeezed his eyes shut he could just picture the light in his dream, feel it around him and imagine that he was being held in a pair of dazzling wings.

He stayed like that for a moment, feeling the rumble in the angel's chest when Castiel said his name. The tightness of the arms that held him in a way that Sam was sure he had never felt before. He held onto the moment, trying to make it last, to commit every tiny detail to memory. The pressure of the angel's fingertips, the feel of Castiel's cheek resting against his head, and the fullness in his chest.

"Thank you, Cas," he said softly. And there were so many things he was thankful for—so many ways the angel had rescued Sam. He felt the other man stiffen under his hands.

"You do not have to thank me, Sam." The angel had lifted his head, but Sam couldn't tell where he was looking. "I was not able to prevent your injury." Sam raised his head from the angel's shoulder, breaking the embrace finally so that he could sit back far enough to look into Cas's eyes. Now that he wasn't being held up by the solid presence, he felt sleep hanging over him, his eyes blinking slowly. He found the blue gaze and held it.

"You did save me, Cas," he said. Castiel was backlit by the sparkling tree, and Sam thought once again of lights and stars and Christmas angels. "You took that bell away before it could seriously hurt me, and then just now, in my dream…that was you, right?" Sam hesitated over the last, biting his lip.

Castiel frowned slightly, small lines appearing between his eyes the way they did when the angel wasn't quite sure how to explain something. "You were…attempting to hurt yourself." Cas's eyes flickered down to where Sam's hands rested in his lap, and the hunter let his own gaze slide down as well, blinking at his wrist for the first time. He was surprised to see a light red line of blood near the edge of one of the stitches, and even more surprised to see a matching line of red across the fingernails of his other hand. The nightmare flashed through Sam's mind again, making him shiver as he realized that he had almost dug out the stitches with his fingernails.

"Cas… I…" He could feel a heaviness in his chest, threatening to suffocate him with the thought alone. The angel seemed to sense where his mind was wandering. He lifted a hand and laid it gently over the mar on Sam's flesh, blocking it from his view.

"It was not real, Sam," the angel repeated, soothingly, and as soon as Sam looked back up into those shadow-blue eyes, the dream faded again and he found himself relaxing into the soft cushions of the couch.

"It is not yet morning," Castiel said gently, though he remained kneeling by the side of the couch. Sam could feel his eyelids lingering against his cheeks, dragging him down into sleep, but at the same time…the angel shifted slightly, as though he were going to stand. Almost reflexively, Sam reached out a hand, grabbing the sleeve of the tan trench coat before Castiel could leave.

"Please." Sam didn't know exactly what he was asking, but he hoped the angel did. "I just…don't want to go back to sleep yet."

Castiel stilled the moment Sam's hand took hold of his jacket, though the hunter knew he could have shrugged the grip off with barely a thought. His eyes traced Sam's face with an expression he couldn't quite decipher. Then Castiel nodded slowly, settling closer to the edge of the couch as Sam let himself slide back into the pillows.

"You don't have to sleep," Castiel said, reaching one hand out hesitantly to brush Sam's curled fingers. "I will be here."

It wasn't really the kind of declaration a human would make, a little off, like many of Cas's attempts to communicate—but Sam felt like he understood perfectly, and he felt a smile tugging at his lips. He wouldn't sleep, and Cas would be there. It was exactly what he needed to hear.

.x.

The morning sunlight creeping across the wooden floor of the dining room found Castiel still sitting on the couch next to Sam, watching the sky grow steadily lighter and the snow outside the windows begin to sparkle. Sam had fallen asleep again at last, though he had not consented to lie down; he was propped up against the curve of the couch back instead, his face pressed into the valley between two cushions, with his hands fisted loosely in the snowflake-patterned fleece and his t-shirt rising and falling with every soft breath. Castiel glanced over his shoulder at the belt of red clouds obscuring the horizon before he turned back and leaned forward in his seat on the edge of the couch, studying the dark circles that lay heavy as shadow under Sam's eyes.

Sam had refused the pull of sleep for a long time, even as his eyes blinked slower and slower, his exhaustion gradually outweighing his fear. Even after he'd finally succumbed, the murmured conversation he and Castiel had been holding trailing off into silence, the angel had studied the lines of his face for hours, searching for the flickers of another nightmare. He was haunted by the memories of Sam startling up from his blankets, his own blood tainting his fingertips as he'd clawed at his wrist, the broken, disjointed words he'd mumbled into Castiel's shirt, his every breath heavy and shaking. Castiel sat back until he was leaning against the couch cushions, remembering how tightly Sam had hung onto him, his arms straining around the angel's back as if he'd thought Castiel might disappear and leave him to the darkness. Letting go of him had been almost impossible; Castiel found his arms wanted to stay where they were, locked around Sam equally tightly, offering something or asking something he was not even sure of himself. Offering shelter. Asking forgiveness. Sam's heart beating against him had felt like absolution.

The Christmas tree was still on; its lights were only a dull gleam now, pale in comparison to the daylight pooling across the floor. Castiel glanced once more at Sam before standing and crossing the room, easing his hand through the tangle of evergreen boughs to pull the plug from the wall. He had just risen again, the tree dark beside him, when he heard the creak of the bedroom door opening down the hall. He looked up to see Dean coming toward him, his footsteps unusually soft on the wooden floor. Dean's eyes seemed wild, and though his hair was matted in the back, the spikes sticking out at the strange angles sleep had made of them, his movements were quick and precise, as if he had woken abruptly and come immediately alert, his mind unsettled. Dean paused at the junction between the hall and the kitchen and stared for a long moment at his brother before his eyes shifted to Castiel, his eyebrows rising toward his hairline.

"That what you do all night, Cas? Stand out here playing with the Christmas tree?"

Castiel glanced down at the green plug in his hand. He lowered it slowly behind the tree once more and then removed his arm from the curling needles, studying Dean's expression. It was one he had learned to recognize, over the months they had known each other—the sharp eyes and tight jaw of a man who was hiding his fear with anger, yielding like a child to the instinct to be angry instead of afraid. Castiel stepped away from the Christmas tree.

"You are awake earlier than usual," he said. He kept his voice soft, hoping the sound would not disturb the figure on the couch; Dean seemed to have the same thought, as his eyes cut away from Castiel to regard his brother again. The older hunter shifted his feet and jammed his hands into the pockets of the jeans he had likely slept in.

"Yeah, well… we can't all be like Sleeping Beauty here. Sleeps like the fucking dead."

Castiel pressed his lips together, and Dean grimaced at his own words, raking his fingers back through the disordered strands of his hair. He stepped around the living room table and tugged Sam's hand out of the covers, turning it over to check on the stitches; Castiel marveled that Sam did not even stir, so used to his brother's touch that the rhythm of his breathing barely changed. Dean set his wrist carefully back down. For a moment he stood undecided between the couch and the table, one hand pressed over his mouth as he looked down at Sam—but Castiel could see the restlessness in his bones even before he moved, and he wasn't surprised when Dean strode back to the counter and grabbed his keys, slinging the leather jacket that had been hanging on the back of a chair around his stiffening shoulders.

"I'm gonna go find some coffee or whatever. I'll bring breakfast back with me—might be a few hours, though." He shoved his hands down through his sleeves, the motion almost a punch, his keys wound over his fingers like brass knuckles, and Castiel noted again, in a detached way, all the violence burning in Dean Winchester's blood, the capacity for rage that had so often gotten the best of him. Then Dean glanced over his shoulder and caught Castiel's eye, and jerked his head toward the couch. "He needs the sleep. Just…don't wake him, all right?"

Castiel thought of hours watching the slight vibration of Sam's lips as he breathed, waiting as the glow illuminating Sam's face changed from string lights to sunrise. "Never," he said.

Dean exhaled sharply and turned away.

Castiel stood where he was until he heard the garage door growling open, and watched the Impala reverse out into the street, its wheels skidding over the packed snow under a gas pedal depressed too hard. Then he sunk back onto the couch and resumed his vigil, turning Sam's wrist with two careful fingers so that the comforter hid his stitches. They weren't what Sam needed to see first, when he opened his eyes.


	9. December 8

**December 8**

Sam toweled off his hair, rushing into a pair of jeans as heard the telltale sound of the Gerbers' heavy front door sliding open, meaning that either Cas or Dean had returned. Sam had his money on his brother. Castiel had volunteered to go pick up some things from the King Sooper's about ten blocks down the street; Sam had suggested they wait for Dean to come back with the Impala, or that he could walk with the angel, but Cas had given him that particular fixed look that meant he sensed he was being treated like a child. So Sam had reined in the urge to pin the grocery list to Cas's jacket, counting out three twenties and watching them disappear into the pocket of the tan trench coat. That stubbornness was part of what made Castiel who he was, even if Sam sometimes wished the angel had just a little less of it.

Still, Sam had seen him off with a smile, and then finished up on the computer and hopped in the shower, still smiling at the knowledge that Castiel had the same key that he did right now, which meant that, for a while at least, they would always be returning to the same place. It felt nice to be waiting for the angel and not wondering where he was, when he might turn up again.

It had only been an hour since Castiel left, though, and while that might be enough time for a normal person to pick up a few items and go through the checkout, Cas still had a pretty steep learning curve.

Sam glanced into the mirror, which had a huge snowman decal across it, as well as a bunch of sparkly snowflakes, and he had to duck down to actually see his face through the onslaught of cheesy Christmas cheer. The two ugly black stitches still stood out starkly on the skin of his wrist. Sam's foot slipped a little on a snowman-shaped mat, and he ran a hand through his hair, giving up on anything more complicated. Dean said the master bathroom had potpourri and candles; that and the cartoon dominance made it twice as clear that this was the kids' bathroom. Which was how Sam had ended up with peppermint shampoo that probably unfortunately belonged to Tina. The other bottles of Axe Special Attraction were empty, indicating that Joshua, like most prepubescent boys, didn't really care about his hygiene.

"Sam." Dean's voice rang out from upstairs, confirming Sam's theory, and the tall hunter shook out his towel, hanging it over the glass shower door. "Sam!" the call came again a moment later, followed by an even louder "Sammy!"

Sam rolled his eyes, popping the door open and feeling a shiver on his skin as the steam escaped the bathroom into the cooler air of the basement. Dean shouted his name again.

"I'm coming, dude!" Sam called back, irritated. He gathered his laptop from the family room, thumbing the side with his finger to boot it up and heading up to the living room where his brother's disembodied voice was ringing out. He found Dean sprawled out bonelessly on the couch, crushing a fat snowman pillow, his head sinking between the center cushions. He straightened a little when he saw Sam, a shark's grin overtaking his lips.

"Sammy," he greeted, then glanced around expectantly, narrowing his eyes at the stairs as though expecting someone else to emerge. "Where's Cas?"

Sam flicked a droplet of water out of his face, juggling the open laptop in one hand. "He's out shopping," he replied evenly.

Dean gave him an incredulous look, which Sam simply returned, daring his brother to challenge the statement. The older hunter just snorted, which likely meant that whether he believed Sam or not, he didn't care. Dean stretched back out onto the couch, putting his shoes up on the Gerbers' nice coffee table and almost knocking over a delicate snow globe featuring a reindeer nibbling on a snowman's nose.

Sam arched an eyebrow and used one hand to sweep his brother's legs back onto the floor as he plopped down next to him on the couch, placing the laptop on the table in front of him and clicking through to open the page he'd saved.

"So," he started, clearing his throat, "I managed to get in contact with Rachael Loughton." Sam tried to keep the screen of the laptop turned away from his brother as he scrolled down the page, watching the pink edges with the clipart of lipstick and kisses go by while his cursor trailed a shower of sparkles. Dean had started yanking off his shoes and socks, possibly because he knew that Sam wouldn't let him put them on the Gerbers' table. Sometimes Sam felt like a kindergarten teacher—forced to explain and enforce the most basic level of courtesy on his chimpanzee brother. He finally reached the entry he was looking for and turned the screen back toward his brother. "My hunch about something else going on with these bells was right. Apparently there was more to the initial dream than Rachael posted, and…"

Sam lost his train of thought entirely as he stared at his brother's feet, sitting back up on the wooden coffee table.

"Your—your toenails are painted," he stuttered out, brow creasing as he stared at Dean.

"Really, Sam?" Dean asked sarcastically, wiggling his toes and making the light bounce off his shiny, bright red nails. "Is that what those girls in the salon were doing to my feet?"

Sam blinked a few times. It really was unlikely that this had happened by accident, but he wasn't sure his brother really understood. His toenails were like fire-engine red—clown nose red. The tall hunter frowned at the image.

"I thought you were going to a Christmas Boutique," Sam protested, transfixed as Dean's toes continued to wiggle at him like ten little worms in fire hats. Dean stretched his arms over his head.

"I did go to the boutique—which is apparently a place they sell clothes. Did you know that?" He glanced at Sam with his eyebrows raised.

"Yes. What did you think it…you know what, never mind." Sam could only shake his head, fighting to tear his eyes away from the monstrously painted Vienna sausages dancing on his brother's feet. "Why did you…" He gestured helplessly at Dean's toes.

"I was following a lead on a bell, obviously," Dean said. "No need to get so excited, man. Your secret girly sleepovers with Cas are safe forever." Sam gave him a flat look, and watched as Dean mouthed something involving the word _bitch_ under his breath. "So," Dean prompted, rubbing a hand over his chin, "you got ahold of the Teen Magazine prophet, huh? I thought she was in L.A. with an unlisted phone number or something."

"She is," Sam confirmed. "I got her in a private chat online…" Dean waggled his eyebrows, molding his lips around the words _private chat_ —his horrifying toes waggled too. Sam couldn't let it go. "Why red, dude?" he demanded. "That is a horrible color."

"This is not red, Sam," Dean told him, looking far too serious for the opium trip Sam was definitely living right now. "This is Cherry Pie Surprise. It's part of their holiday line or something. It's actually supposed to smell like pie—here!" Dean slid to the side, resting his head on the arm of the couch and shoving his feet into Sam's face. Sam jerked backward as far into the pillows as he could go as Dean squirmed his toes around right under his nose.

"Dude, that's gross!" he protested, trying to shove the feet away before he gagged.

"How do they smell, Sammy?" Dean pressed, accidently slamming his heel into Sam's chin—at least Sam hoped it was an accident.

"They smell like a noxious combination of paint fumes and cherry cough syrup." His answer made Dean laugh, which unfortunately caused him to slide farther down onto the couch, his legs flopping into Sam's lap. Sam chuckled a little at his brother's ridiculousness, and Dean reached out to steady himself on the coffee table, suddenly eye level with Sam's computer.

"What's this now?" Dean's voice piqued higher with interest. "Samantha048 needs advice…" his brother read off the screen.

Sam tried to snatch up the laptop, but Dean was faster, using his feet to trap Sam on the couch while he snagged the computer, then sat up and pulled it into his lap.

"Private chat?" he said, snorting out a laugh. "You mean private consult for _Samantha…_ " Dean dragged the name out mockingly, turning away and blocking Sam's hands as he tried to get the computer back again. "Nothing to be ashamed of, Sam," Dean continued, hitting the up arrow to find the beginning of the conversation. "I just wish you'd come to me for advice instead of…" He hit the top of the chat and cleared his throat dramatically, pinching his face in a way that Sam thought made him look severely constipated. "My name is Samantha…blah, blah, blah, lies…I'm in Boulder, and I felt a real connection to the dream you had about the bells. I just got out of this bad long-term relationship, but there's this new guy I've been noticing…" Dean had to stop and laugh then, and Sam felt heat spreading across his cheeks, all the way to his burning ears.

"Dude, I couldn't contact her as a twenty-four-year-old guy and tell her I was looking for a demon," Sam defended. "Besides, it worked."

"Whatever you say, Sammy—'cause I certainly couldn't have contacted her as _Samantha048 Needs Advice_." Dean cackled again, snorting on his spit, and Sam took the opportunity to pull the computer off Dean's lap and into his own.

"Well, at least I didn't get my toenails painted on my personal spa day," he countered.

"Hey!" Dean stopped laughing and pinned Sam with a disgruntled look. "That was hellish, man! That boutique was right next to a salon, and one of the nail-frying thingies shorted out, with some major bell vibes. So I go in there to check it out, and then there's girls all over me, and they're washing my hair with some shit that stings like acid and cooking my head in one of their space-helmet ovens…" Sam bit back a smile as he brother shook his hands over his head to pantomime the bubble.

"What did you say to them?" Sam wanted to know.

"I just said I'd take a full treatment," Dean whined, looking far more betrayed than his stupidity really deserved. "I thought that meant a haircut and a shave…"

"Yeah, that's a barber shop."

Dean gave Sam's arm a shove. "Well, I'm afraid I'm not as knowledgeable about beauty salons as you are, Samantha. I mean, they put glue in my hair, man, and then yanked it around for like twenty minutes—probably to hide all the bald patches they made with their banshee-pulling." Dean reached up to rub a hand to rub through his hair, and as Sam watched the spikes ripple through his fingers he realized Dean's hair looked shiny and hard, like it had been subjected to some kind of product after all. "Then, finally, I had no choice but to get a nail treatment to get close to those nail-cooking machines."

It was Sam's turn to laugh, a low chuckle that grew as he thought about Dean's supposed manhandling.

"Oh sure," his brother griped. "It's easy for you to gloat—all you had to do was sit here and whine to some chick online about your sad love life, while I was out there being brutalized." Sam just laughed harder, wiping at his eyes.

"Did you at least get a bell?" he asked once he'd gotten himself under control.

Dean sniffed, insulted. "Of course." He jerked his thumb toward where Sam knew the huge black sealing box was tucked into a corner—a more suitable place, they'd decided, than the middle of the dining-room table.

"Well, in the end, I got Rachael to write up the whole dream with no omissions," Sam said, returning his attention to the computer and scrolling back to the right entry.

"I think you mean _lovesick Samantha_ did." Dean made as though to lean over and try to read more of the chat, but Sam held the laptop close to his chest, out of reach of prying eyes and fingers alike.

"I have a more detailed description of the bells and the church, which might be useful, but mostly she told me the part that never made it onto the original blog post. In her dream, she had a guide."

Dean sat a little straighter, some of the joking gone as a frown creased his face. "Wouldn't that guide be God—like, kinda always, since she's a prophet?" he asked.

"I don't know," Sam answered, biting his lip. "Because the person she described sounded to me like it was probably a nun, likely from the early 1900s, around the same time Cas was telling us the bells went missing."

Dean quirked his lips. "This chick is a prophet of the Lord and she didn't recognize a nun?" he demanded.

"Well, the nun habit has changed a lot over the years," Sam explained, shrugging. He ran his tongue over his lips, his eyes skating across the text until he found what he was looking for. "See, Rachael wrote: _She had a strange hat on—a little bit like a bonnet. It was all white with a peaked top, and sides that flipped up like they were starched_."

Dean's nose was scrunched, his eyes flickering upward as though he were trying to picture this atrocious hat. Sam supposed it might be difficult, since Dean had almost certainly never seen one.

"Anyway," Sam went on, "that combined with the frock she describes makes me think the hat is a white-winged cornette. It's a type a habit favored by nuns who tended to the sick and poor instead of remaining in a cloister."

"I'm not even going to pretend I was paying attention to most of that," Dean said, latching onto one detail in particular, "but mostly you're telling me that nuns haven't always been nuns—with the long black hats and robes?"

"Well, no, they were…" Sam started, revving up to try to explain, but Dean cut him off.

"My god, Sam—it's like the Jesus birthday thing all over again. Nuns wearing other stuff? This religion is full of lies," Dean announced, using his gag-worthy toes to push his brother's computer away across the table.

Sam rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to point out that really it was more like Dean was full of misconceptions. When his gaze settled again, it was on the garishly red nails which had come to rest on the edge of the table. "You want me to find some acetone for your toes?" he offered, reaching over to close the computer. He really hadn't figured out anything else about the church or the bells—anything recorded about a nun that long ago wasn't going to be on the Internet, unfortunately. He offered his brother a smile, which Dean returned with a look of horror.

"Why would I want toxic chemicals on my feet?"

"Acetone is the main ingredient in nail polish remover," Sam said, with a vague gesture toward the Gerbers' medicine cabinet down the hall. "And it's only toxic in large amounts or with overexposure—"

"So it _is_ toxic!" his brother insisted, as usual hearing only what he wanted to hear.

"Your toenails!" Sam protested, only to find them waggling in his face again.

"Cherry delicious," Dean insisted. Sam just shoved him off, hoping that Cas would come back soon, because he really needed a reprieve from this idiocy.

.x.

After eight days living in the suburban twilight zone, Dean was pretty sure the Gerbers' house was ground zero for the Stepford zombie apocalypse. Dean wasn't sure what thermos-carrying, lawn-deer-toting, hybrid-driving neighbor had sunk their teeth into Sam and infected him with the same ball-numbing urge to steam vegetables and sculpt disturbing snow angels with a serious case of bean face as the rest of the undead cul-de-sac, but his money was on the bitchy woman across the street who carried her frippy dog everywhere and was always screeching at her husband in the driveway at that ungodly hour in the morning when white-collar jackasses got up to go to work. She'd probably taken the pathetic little Chihuahua's balls off day one—and the dog's, too. But if there was one thing about this picket-fence purgatory that Dean would like to import back to real life, it was definitely the enormous shell-shaped Jacuzzi tub in the Gerbers' master bathroom.

Dean lounged back in the tub and stuck his toes out of the far end, peering at his cherry delicious nail polish through the suds of jets and bath soap. He'd done as much scoffing and gagging on first seeing Mrs. Gerber's color-coordinated bottles of bath bubbles as any self-respecting straight guy, but in the end he'd thrown some Sparkling Sugar Cookie gel in there anyway, and it had foamed up pretty good, though it smelled more like day-old donuts than any sugar cookie Dean would admit to eating. Mostly he was hoping it'd cancel out the lacquer smell wafting up from his toes, which had been useful for grossing Sam out but was honestly sort of nauseating even for him. Still, there was no way he was letting Sam go all Makeover Barbie on his toes and burn the paint off: his feet had been brutalized enough for one day, and anything that bugged Sam that much was definitely worth hanging onto for at least a week. Plus, cherry pie rocked.

A telltale yipping from outside caused Dean to push himself up on his elbows and peer out the window that looked right down on the street, which was pretty weird and a little kinky for people on both sides of the glass. Sure enough, there was the Termineighbor, standing next to her mailbox with her trusty yap dog going off like a smoke detector at a Zeppelin concert. What made it worth sitting up to get a better view, though, was that the intruder getting the third degree from a furry, yammering football was a very familiar angel in a tan trench coat, standing at the end of the Gerbers' driveway with his arms full of grocery bags and his default constipated expression on his face. Dean grinned. A showdown between his moron guardian angel and a Chihuahua was exactly what he needed after a long, hard day of being the only one in the family bringing home the bells. Cas could probably take Fluffy, but he wouldn't put it past the bitch on two legs to jump in with her newspaper, and Castiel was notoriously horrible with women…

As if summoned by his thoughts, Dean heard the screen door slam and then Sam appeared two-timing it down the front steps, the housewife extraordinaire running to the rescue. Sam sent the woman across the street a big smile and a particularly girly wave, all wrist and no bicep, but Termineighbor didn't look like she was buying it—neither was Dean, because no matter which of Marcie Gerber's cocktail dresses Sam put on, he and Cas were never going to pass for a good suburban couple. All the same, Dean choked and swallowed a little bathwater as Sam actually slipped his arm through Cas's fucking elbow and led the angel back toward the house like a giddy newlywed. Cas mostly just looked confused, but he certainly wasn't pushing Sam off, either, and that made him just as guilty.

Dean spit cookie soap out of his mouth and shook his head, pushing his toes higher out of the water. There was no way he was getting rid of this nail polish now. Sam desperately needed to wake up and smell the cherry pie, and Dean had a feeling he might need a little extra firepower to make that happen.


	10. December 9

**December 9  
**

Sam hummed along with the Christmas music playing through the Gerbers' stereo system as he stuffed handfuls of clothes into the washing machine. He knew he was a little toneless, unused to most of the songs on the many CDs covered in snow and Christmas trees and stars that he'd found stacked neatly on top of the entertainment center in the basement. He liked them, though; they were softer than the songs that blared through shopping malls and diners, and he hadn't heard "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" once—which was unfortunately about the right fit for most of the places the Winchesters visited.

The song was instrumental, but Sam thought maybe he just recognized the song as "O' Little Town of Bethlehem." A few more notes fell between his lips and he paused, shoving clothes into the front-loading dryer—another top-of-the-line amenity Cas had described for him on their first day. A smile tugged at the tall hunter's lips. He had felt like he was buying a house, letting himself be convinced by the earnest look on the angel's face that this was the perfect place for them.

Thoughts of their resident angel had Sam walking over to the deep sink that stuck out of the wall next to the water heater, currently occupied by a tan trench coat hanging over the plastic edge. Sam raised one sleeve out of the soapy water it had been soaking in, frowning at the dark brown patch that remained on the cuff. Castiel's suit jacket and button-down were balled up and waiting on top of the dryer, marred by the same sticky stain.

Sam sighed. He had made pancakes for breakfast that morning, trying to keep his brother pacified by reminding him of the perks of Suburbia. And that part had worked out just fine, with Dean grinning and shoveling a disturbing number of pancakes down his gullet. Sam had enjoyed setting a place for Cas, too, and the Gerbers had a whole assortment of things, from real maple syrup to strawberry syrup and lemon butter. Even powdered sugar for children—or adults still stuck in the mindset of children.

Unfortunately, partway through his second helping, Dean decided Cas wasn't enjoying his pancakes properly and had reached over with the pitcher of syrup, pouring it generously over the angel's plate. Castiel had stuck his hand out to try and fend the hunter off, which Sam would have told him was a bad idea if he hadn't been at the stove making another batch. Dean never lost at food chicken, because he didn't care if he dropped food on a plate or a lap or a tabletop, and he would eat anything whether it had been licked, dropped, or partly chewed—Sam had no proof of the last, but he had long privately suspected. The syrup had gotten on the cuff of the angel's trench coat, the sleeve of the suit jacket, and even the white button down, and with an embargo on angel powers, Castiel couldn't just wave them away like usual. Then Dean had beaten a hasty retreat, offering to follow up with the records girl he had talked with on the phone and leaving Sam to clean up. Typical Dean.

Castiel was currently changing into some of Harold Gerber's things while Sam started a load of laundry and tried to figure out how he was going to break it to Cas that his things were dry clean only, and would have to be taken and left somewhere overnight.

"Sam."

The tall hunter turned at the sound of his name. Castiel stood uncomfortably in the doorway, tugging at the cuff of one of his sleeves, and Sam could understand why. Harold was not a bad match for Cas in _height_ , but the man was simply so much heavier than the angel that Castiel was swimming in the girth of his clothes.

It didn't help that Cas had tried to copy the style of his own clothes as closely as possible. The pants bagged around his waist even with a black belt he had cinched at the tightest possible hole, leaving a tail of extra belt hanging out. The button-down looked almost right, but Sam could see the bunches where all the excess material had to be tucked in. All in all, Cas looked a little like he was getting ready to shoot for one of those before-and-after weight-loss advertisements, where the models wore their old clothes and then yanked the pants away from their waists to show off their new look. The angel was staring at Sam, though, waiting for him to say something.

"Umm," Sam began unsurely, trying to gather his thoughts. Castiel frowned sharply.

"It is not right," the angel snapped when nothing else was immediately forthcoming. He looked down at himself and the clothes with obvious displeasure.

"No," Sam protested immediately, taking a few steps toward the angel. "It's just…"

Sam wasn't sure exactly what he was going to say, but the steps had brought him close enough to notice that the starchy tag of the oversized shirt was sticking out from the collar. It was almost without thinking that Sam moved closer, reaching a hand over Cas's shoulder and tucking the little white flag down. It was then that he turned his face to the angel and realized how close he was to the other man.

Castiel was looking up at him curiously, and Sam swallowed hard at the dark eyes scant inches from his. His fingers still rested at the back of Cas's neck. Somewhere in the background the Christmas track turned over and the tinkling sound of bells filtered through the house. And Sam was still holding a shirt in one hand that he had intended to shove in the washer, the sleeve trailing down onto the linoleum floor, but he didn't let go.

"The tag…" he breathed. Some kind of rational thought was trying to get through, tell him that this moment had gone on too long, but instead there was just the bells.

He'd looked up everything he could find about bells and their power to ward off evil. Bells had long been tied with the spiritual—at one time church bells had even been rung out in the harvest season because it was thought they had the power to bring bounty.

Castiel reached his hand up to rest over Sam's, possibly to figure out what a _tag_ was. His fingers were warm and soft as they explored what Sam had gripped. The shirt slipped to the floor from Sam's other hand, and he leaned in slightly. The ringing was still there, signifying luck and blessing unions as it had done at the end of weddings for years.

He slid his hand to the edge of Cas's shoulder, rested it there. He could feel the angel's breaths from this close, see the steady heartbeat in his neck, and he wondered again about wings. The tinkling of the bells was soft, and the next memory was entirely his own, from a lifetime ago, reading in a children's book: _Every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings._

Sam knew so much better now, knew too much about angels to believe such a childish thing, but suddenly he wanted to kiss Castiel—while the ringing was still there, while the angel was still there, before this moment was gone.

And then suddenly it was his phone that was ringing. Sam jumped, startled as the chimes blared out insistently, vibrating from his pocket. Sam scrambled back a few steps, slipping a little on the shirt he had dropped on the floor. He reached down, scooping it up with one hand and scrambling to get his phone open with the other.

"Yes. I'm here," he said breathlessly into the receiver, tearing his eyes away from Castiel's. The angel still had his hand up, and a confused expression marred his features. Sam suddenly realized that he hadn't looked at the caller ID before answering. "I mean, it's Sam," he tacked on hastily, hoping he hadn't just burned a lead.

"Yeah, I know." It was his brother's voice that huffed through the plastic, annoyed. "I dialed your phone, moron—and in case all that domestic life has cooked your brain completely, it's me, Dean."

"Right," Sam said shortly, because who else would be such a dick. Sam felt his breath catch a moment when Cas's hand brushed against his, but when he looked up he realized that the angel was just taking the shirt he had picked up, placing it into the machine with the rest of the dirty clothes. Sam nodded in quick thanks, feeling like an idiot because of so much more than how he had answered the phone.

"Frosty the Snowman" was now in the background, and Sam watched as Castiel loaded the rest of the clothes into the washer. His heart was still beating too fast, but he pushed the feeling away, forcing himself to concentrate on Dean, who was apparently winding down some kind of soliloquy about how doing research on old stuff sucked ass.

"I mean the woman sounded so hot on the phone, Sam," Dean whined. "And her name was Marilyn. Isn't there, like, some kind of rule that chicks named Marilyn have to be hot?"

Sam made a noncommittal noise in his throat, which he hoped Dean interpreted as _that's so stupid it's not worth addressing_. Sam turned away from the angel loading the washer and cradled the phone as his brother went on. It was such a familiar pattern, this back-and-forth with Dean; it felt like the moments before had been a dream, gone already.

"I mean, she was like fifty, dude!" Dean's voice was filled with a tone that said this piece of information ought to have significance to Sam.

Sam just bit his lip. Generationally, given the trends in baby names, he would actually expect Marilyn to be popular about the time the current forty-to-sixty crowd was born. He turned back to see Castiel waiting patiently by the now full washing machine.

Sam smiled at him and mouthed _thank you_ while trying to remember if warm-cold or cold-cold was better for the environment. Dean bit out a few more choice words, and Sam sighed, fiddling with the dials.

"So were you able to get past Marilyn and find out anything for real, or are you about to limp home with cougar scratches on your back?"

"Ha!" Dean huffed out. "You wish." The phone crackled a little and Sam turned to Cas, holding up a finger in the universal sign for _just a minute_ —though Cas would probably have continued to stand there without any prompting.

"I'll have you know," his brother was bragging, "I got your information on the nun—and a batch of homemade cookies, because apparently I remind Marilyn of her son. And these cookies are gonna be awesome, Sam, because this old lady looks like Mrs. Fields—except she's black…" Dean trailed off for a moment. "Does that make her Aunt Jemima?"

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "No. That makes you racist," he warned. "Now about the nun?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. So I found a ledger—kept by some tight-ass accountant back in the day—and get this, Sam. The bells didn't just go missing: they went missing with a nun, who was thought to have stolen them. Guess those things are valuable or something?"

"As holy relics, their value would have been more than just money," Sam confirmed. He switched the phone to the other side and beckoned for Castiel to follow him out of the laundry room. The washer cycle had started, and he didn't want to have to compete with the machine to hear.

"Whatever." Back in the living room, Sam could now hear the background noise of the street behind his brother's voice. "But get this," Dean continued, "the nun who went missing, her name was Mary-Margaret Constance."

"Seriously?" Sam couldn't help but blink at that.

"I know, right?" his brother returned. "That's like naming your dog Spot, or believing that a stripper's name is actually Candi with an I."

Sam winced a little at the comparison of nuns and strippers.

"She could have had very pious parents?" he hazarded, though he sounded more like he was trying to convince himself.

"Right—except she only joined the church one year before disappearing, and I couldn't find any records of a Mary-Margaret Constance before that." Sam rubbed his forehead.

"I'm not surprised she's thought to have stolen the bells," he said slowly. "But if that's the case, why were they found under the church?"

"And why is she popping around in the dreams of the Lord's prophets for some show-and-tell," Dean added. Sam heard the distinct sound of a car door closing and could imagine Dean settling himself in the Impala. "Well, anyway, there's just one more thing. In the months leading up to the bells disappearing, four nuns died."

Sam rubbed one hand against his pant leg. "Died? In an unusual way?"

He could almost hear Dean shaking his head, as he grunted. "No idea. The only reason it was even listed is because it cost money to bury them."

"Could be something," Sam mused. "But then again, medicine and disease in the early 1900s…could also be nothing."

"You wanted to go on this fucking goose chase," Dean reminded his brother. Sam heard the engine of the Impala start up. "I'm heading back," his brother finished.

The next words came out on impulse, as Sam glanced over his shoulder to where Cas was standing in Harold's things. "Cas and I are gonna borrow the Gerbers' car and do some shopping."

"Bring back pie," Dean instructed. "And something other than that rabbit food you eat." Then his brother hung up. Sam pushed his thumb over the end call button and let his hand drop, shoving the phone back into his pocket and turning to Castiel.

"We are going somewhere, Sam?" the angel asked, frowning down at himself.

"Well…" the tall hunter began, "we're gonna take your clothes—your coat and stuff, to a place where they can clean them without ruining them, but I thought…" Sam felt suddenly awkward. His throat was too dry, and red was trying to creep up his neck. "I just thought maybe you…we could get some different clothes to wear."

Castiel's dark eyes bore into Sam as though searching for something, and Sam dug his hands into the pockets of his pants.

"I mean, we've got some extra cash, thanks to your setting us up with accommodations, and I thought we could…" Sam trailed off, laughing awkwardly and pulling his hands from his pockets. "You know what, actually—why don't I just run your stuff to the dry cleaner's. It will be as good as new tomorrow—I promise."

Sam took a few darting steps past Castiel toward the kitchen, where the keys to the Gerbers' minivan lay in a dish on the counter. The angel's hand on his elbow stopped him. The grip was gentle but at the same time firm, and Sam had a feeling he wouldn't have been able to shrug it off even if he'd wanted to try.

"I would like that, Sam." Cas's voice was low, and Sam met his eyes hesitantly—but there was no uncertainty in the angel's expression. A smile stretched across Sam's face and he relaxed in the angel's grip.

"Yeah," he agreed. "I'd like that, too."

"Winter Wonderland"played in the background with the sleigh bells ringing.

.x.

Of the human realities that came with inhabiting a vessel, the one Castiel had not grown accustomed to, even after all this time, was the concept of his reflection. Breath and heartbeat, the rhythms of the body that kept the vessel alive, he barely noticed now; touch had become something he not only accepted but initiated, and had come to understand the temptation of. Mirrors still caught him off guard. Castiel had never given much thought to the visual component of his true nature, except to note that it was too bright for the eyes of man, which had never been intended to look upon grace in its purest form. But the angel was sure that whatever he looked like, it was not the strange man in the dressing-room mirror with blue eyes and ruffled black hair, struggling to pull on a sweater.

Castiel had not liked the dry cleaner's. He had been at first suspicious and then uncomfortable when Sam explained that he would not be able to have his own clothes for a full day, and he had watched with narrowed eyes as Sam handed his clothes over the sales counter on a few hangers borrowed from Harold Gerber's closet. He did not like the woman who received them, who clicked her tongue at Sam as if blaming him for forcing her to perform this service, and who would not stop staring at him, standing beside Sam in Harold Gerber's ill-fitting white shirt and the suit pants that ballooned around his knees. He had a sense that he looked idiotic, whatever Sam said—and by the time Sam finished paying the woman who insisted on being deliberately vague about when his clothes could be picked up, Castiel had decided that his best option was to return to the house and stand in Harold Gerber's closet until such time as his own things were restored to him. He was slightly irritated when Sam turned the Gerbers' minivan in the other direction.

The department store was housed inside a large slab of yellow concrete and marked by a red bull's-eye. Inside it was a maze of long aisles and racks of apparel, and everywhere there were great numbers of people, wielding their large red shopping carts as barricades to block the lanes. Sam had led him back through the store to a section designated by oversized pictures of men, all of them performing a variety of activities that Castiel was sure were not allowed in the store. Sam stepped aside to let a mother with a bawling child in her cart roll by, and then took hold of Castiel's arm and tugged him down one of the aisles, stopping next to a rack of knit sweatshirts.

"Okay. So this is the men's section," Sam explained, offering him a smile that Castiel thought was probably meant to be encouraging. "Let's look around and see if we can find anything that looks…you know, something you want to wear. I checked the tags on your shirt and pants before we took them to the dry cleaner's, so at least we already know your size."

Castiel let his gaze travel slowly across the sea of clothes before returning to Sam, his eyes narrowed slightly in reluctance. "Can we buy a black suit, Sam?" he asked.

Sam's small wince was answer enough.

Castiel was not particularly interested in wearing any of the clothes laid out for display, but he let Sam lead him from rack to rack all the same, taking as a guide the tall hunter's assumptions about what he might accept. The pants Sam offered were not dissimilar to what he was used to wearing, though most of them were of a thicker material; the other items, turtlenecks and button-downs and plain cotton shirts, were all long-sleeved, and Castiel suspected that Sam had forgotten he was incapable of getting cold. The colors were meaningless to him, so he chose a variety of them, a red turtleneck and a dark blue sweater and button-downs in white and green—but after the second time Sam steered him away from something orange, he stopped reaching for things in that shade, and began wondering if there was universally acknowledged to be something wrong with that color.

It didn't take Castiel long to decide he disliked the dressing room stage of clothes shopping, not least because while he understood the mechanics of dressing and undressing himself by now, he was not able to do it very quickly. Which was why even though Sam had picked out a number of things for himself as well, similar turtlenecks and a few sweaters with a heavy weave pattern, the door of the neighboring fitting room had long since clicked open and Sam's soft steps moved out into the area in front of the mirrors while Castiel was still pushing his arms through his sleeves and watching a black-haired, sharp-featured man do the same, both of them careful to get the tag in the back this time. Sam had done his best not to laugh, but Castiel did not like to feel he was making a child's mistakes.

He was negotiating the sweater over his head when there was a soft knock on the door.

"Cas? You still doing okay?"

Castiel pushed his head through the hole in the top of the sweater and pulled it down to his waist, staring suddenly into the unfamiliar blue eyes in the mirror. His reflection's hair was mussed again; Castiel lifted a hand to the tousled strands, but found he wasn't sure how it was supposed to look, and only brushed the short strands away from his face.

Another knock, slightly louder this time. "Cas?"

"I am still here, Sam," Castiel replied, painstakingly unrolling the folds at the bottom of the sweater. There was a pause from beyond the door, as if Sam had opened his mouth but then hesitated before speaking.

"Do you need help with anything?" he asked finally, his voice tentative.

Castiel considered the man in the mirror—the dark blue sweater above light brown pants, his disordered hair and uncertain eyes, and the hands resting stiffly at his sides. Though the fit was much better, he felt no less foolish in these clothes than he had in Harold Gerber's oversized things now piled in the corner of the dressing room, or the red snowman sweater he had worn ice skating a few days before, when Sam had laughed and confirmed his intuition of how ridiculous he had looked all along. Castiel had no ability to judge whether he looked equally ridiculous in the suit and trench coat he had always worn. But in his mind those clothes had always been as much a part of the vessel he inhabited as his pale skin, and without them he barely recognized himself. He wondered if Sam would feel the same.

"Cas?" Sam tried again, more uncertain than before.

Castiel adjusted the sleeves of the sweater until they fell straight across his wrists. Then he turned and opened the door of the dressing room, startling the figure who had been waiting just outside it.

"Cas!" Sam took a step back as Castiel suddenly stepped into the open doorway, his feet stumbling a little as he tried to give the angel space to exit the dressing room. For a moment he simply looked surprised, though Castiel couldn't decide whether that was related to his outfit or his abrupt departure from the small alcove—but within moments his expression shifted into a smile, and Sam reached out to smooth a wrinkle from the collar of the sweater, his hand lingering briefly on the angel's shoulder. "Hey. That looks good, Cas. Do you like it?"

Castiel glanced down at himself, sweater and tan pants and the toes of his black socks, which looked strange out of his shoes. Then he looked up at Sam again, a wary frown touching his lips. "These are still wrong," he hazarded, his voice trailing up just enough to turn the statement into a question. "I look…stupid."

Castiel had learned to be suspicious when Sam's denial was too quick, or too vehement; more often than not, it meant Sam was lying to spare his feelings. But his doubts about the sweater faded a little when Sam just shook his head softly, a genuine smile pulling his dimples out onto his cheeks.

"You don't look stupid, Cas," Sam assured him. The other man seemed to study him for a minute, and then Sam's smile widened just enough to show his teeth as he reached out and combed his fingers through Castiel's hair, pushing the strands up out of his face again. "You look really nice. It's a good look for you."

Castiel returned his stare silently for a moment, considering. Then his gaze shifted as he took in for the first time what Sam was wearing—a turtleneck with a crimson vest pulled over it, the solid color broken here and there by embroidered holly leaves. Castiel looked up into hazel eyes again. "You look nice as well, Sam," he said. Sam pushed his hands into his pockets as he smiled.

"Thanks, Cas."

It was on their way toward the front of the store, the cart laden with pants and long-sleeved shirts and a package of black socks with red and green ornaments on them, which Sam had hesitated an instant before grabbing, that one last thing caught the tall hunter's attention, and he stopped abruptly, settling one hand on the cart to keep Castiel from pushing it on. "Hey, Cas," Sam started, reaching out to pick up a package enclosed in plastic. "Do you need any pajamas?"

Castiel glanced at the display; the sign above the shelf advertised packaged sleepwear tops and bottoms, and from what he could see all the shirts were black, with flannel pants of red or dark green checkers tucked inside the packages. What gave him pause were the colorful cartoon characters pressed into the centers of the shirts, their lines standing out starkly against the black cotton. He narrowed his eyes at a blue and white bird with a long neck, which he remembered from a particularly frustrating debate with Dean over an early morning cartoon. The angel turned back to Sam with a small frown.

"Those are for children," he said flatly. Sam blinked a little, one hand rising to rub the back of his neck.

"Not…really. I mean, they're in adult sizes." He glanced down at the plastic package in his hand, regarding the image of a gray and white rabbit with too long legs as if seeing it for the first time. "Oh—you mean the cartoon thing. Yeah. They're not for kids, it's just…pajamas are a little different. You never really wear them out of the house." Castiel just stared at the rabbit, skeptical, and after another moment Sam laughed, the sound little more than a breath as he set the package down and picked up another, this one containing red checkered pants and featuring a yellow bird with spines of feathers around its head. "I'm not going to make you get one if you don't want to, Cas. They're just…a nice thing to wear sometimes, when you're at home."

Castiel looked down at the shopping cart. His eyes traced the overlapping sleeves of turtlenecks, sweaters and button-down shirts, the package of socks sticking out from under a pair of tan slacks, the light blue hat with snowflakes that Sam had set on his head for a moment before smiling at him. He caught the edge of Sam's red vest trapped at the bottom of the pile and remembered, suddenly, how different Sam had looked wearing it, like a man who had never washed blood the same color from his hands. His reflection had looked different, too, and for the first time he considered that it might not be an undesirable thing. Then he turned back to Sam and squinted, reaching out with two fingers to brush the edge of the plastic pajama set.

"Which one should I have?" he asked.

Sam's lips twitched up in a smile before he glanced down at the display table. "Um…well, I'm getting Woodstock, so…" He touched one package and then grabbed a different one, holding a set of green plaid and an unidentifiable white shape up next to his own red. "How about Snoopy? He's a dog," Sam added, offering him the package.

Castiel doubted that very much. But he took the package anyway, and set it in the cart next to all the other things he wasn't sure of—because Sam seemed to be sure of them, and that was probably enough.


	11. December 10

**December 10  
**

Sam wrinkled his nose as his stomach growled loudly. He ducked his head, embarrassed, realizing that Castiel had turned away from where he had been staring out the window into the sunlit backyard to fix his gaze on the tall hunter's noisy stomach. Sam stared pointedly at his computer screen, flipping rapidly through a few tabs he had opened without really looking at any of them. His eyes flickered instead to the calendar-clock in the corner of the screen. It was 10:52, exactly three minutes since he's last checked. Sam knew it would probably be about 10:53 or 10:54 if he looked at his watch, since it ran a few minutes fast, but that wouldn't actually make his brother come down the hall any faster.

Giving up the ghost, Sam rubbed the back of his neck, closing all the tiled windows with a single click and pulling the top of his computer down. Cas's gaze had drifted back to the window, where trails of water dripped from the roof as the snow melted under the heat of the midmorning sun. Sam felt his stomach rumble again, though thankfully silently this time, and shook his head, tapping his finger impatiently on the pad of paper, where he had carefully scrawled down the addresses they would need. Castiel's patience was, as always, endless, but Sam couldn't help but feel a little grouchy.

After all, Dean had taken one look at Sam and Cas and the shopping bags full of clothes the day before, and then even his pie hadn't been enough to shut him up.

"So are you girls gonna put on a fashion show?" he had jabbed, jamming his fork into the cherry pie without even slicing it up or putting it on a plate. Sam had raised one particular finger in response, but Dean just followed up by suggesting that maybe his brother could just burn their money in with the next casserole he tried to make—or at least Sam caught enough of it through the half-chewed food coming out of his brother's mouth to know that Dean was insulting the dish he'd tried to make the night before and accusing Sam of wasting money, or maybe just being a girl. Sam mostly ignored his brother—he'd caught Dean a number of times in Harold Gerber's bathrobe, once sitting in the leather chair of his office and chewing on a piece of licorice.

Sam also wasn't the one who got the pedicure or took three hours to get ready, apparently.

Sam turned in his seat at the Gerbers' kitchen table, sending Cas a small smile. He scooted the chair back against the wood floor, folding up the paper with the addresses and sticking it into his pocket. His brother had one more minute, and then Sam was going in there.

After running out of skating rinks and sledding hills, Sam had hit on the idea of checking local restaurants for particular Christmas-themed events, and with no other parameters to narrow the results he now had a list of about twelve locations, half of which seemed to be on the streets of the decorated outdoor mall. The number was daunting, considering they were doing their best to avoid being health inspectors or FBI agents, mostly in case anybody started wondering what these authority figures were doing hanging around all over town and bumming in a local neighborhood.

There was really only one way to visit a restaurant without raising eyebrows, though, and after Dean had turned his nose up at Sam's admittedly crispy casserole and despaired at the Gerbers' food choices, he had taken both Sam and Cas's plates and declared them on a fast until tomorrow, at which point they would visit all twelve restaurants in succession. Sam thought it was more likely they would visit three locations, and only Cas would actually be eating anything by the third place, but he had reluctantly agreed. Now he was starving and they were fifteen minutes late leaving already.

Sam stood up from the table, brushing his hands down the legs of his khaki slacks. He had on a blue button-down with white snowflakes embroidered over the pockets, and had smiled to note that when sent to change, Cas had picked his dark blue sweater, making them match. He brushed a hand over Cas's shoulder as he made his way out from behind the table, moving to stand at the end of the hallway.

"Dean!" he called, knocking on the wall a few times in case his brother was ensconced in that ridiculous shell tub. "C'mon, man, let's go!"

The last thing he expected as a response was a yowl. Sam flattened his back instinctively against the wall at the inhuman cry.

"Dean!" he called again. He could feel Castiel coming up to stand beside him.

The next sound that came from the master bedroom at the end of the hall definitely came from his brother, but Sam could only describe it as a very unmanly shriek. Then the door flew open and a black and gray shape shot across the floor, followed by his brother. The fly on Dean's zipper was undone, leaving his pants low-riding toward indecency with every step. He had no shirt on yet, and his head was swirled up in a towel. The bright red nail polish on his toes led his stumbling race down the hallway as he brandished a tennis racket.

"Get 'im!" Dean shouted at the confused pair standing against the wall. "Get that little fucker!"

The legs of his brother's jeans had slipped down far enough to cover his feet, making him stumble. The tennis racket smashed into the drywall as he veered off, losing his balance, and Sam had to tear his eyes away from the accident about to happen to try and see what his brother was talking about. His initial surge of fear had abated somewhat at seeing the _weapon_ in his brother's hand, because he hadn't heard of a supernatural creature yet who could be taken down with a tennis racket.

The black and gray streak was shooting by Sam even as he struggled to make out four tiny legs, as well as a distinctive stripe on the tail and face. It was a raccoon, and apparently whatever had happened between Dean and the creature, it was scared out of its mind and on a rampage.

"What the hell, Sam?" his brother demanded. Dean had righted himself from the wall, and he yanked at the waist of his pants, moving swiftly past his brother into the room. "You just gonna stand there dumbly?"

Sam blinked a few times and noticed that Castiel was looking warily at the creature as it raced into the living room, scrambling up a high set of shelves and knocking over soccer trophies and picture frames.

"It's a just a raccoon, Dean," Sam said, watching as his brother almost slipped or pantsed himself jumping over the low coffee table. "I mean, it really should be hibernating, but…" He winced as Dean barely caught his balance in time to keep from cracking his skull open on the wood or putting his head through the big-screen TV, and swiped the racket at the animal. The raccoon chattered angrily and made a leap to the DVD shelves over the TV.

Bluray boxes and even some old home video VHS tapes rained down on Dean's head, making his brother swear viciously. "It's a little hellspawn with razor teeth!" the hunter bit out.

Sam sprang into action before the situation could get any worse. There was a sliding glass door that led to the backyard next to the kitchen. "Cas, get the door open!" Sam said, levering himself off the wall and heading for the little closet in the corner. "We've got to get it outside."

Castiel nodded at him though he still looked off-put by the whole situation somehow, making Sam wonder what kind of connection angels did have with animals, and if maybe he should have sent Cas to…calm the raccoon down or something.

In a moment, the glass door was sliding open and Sam had retrieved a broom from the closet. Dean swung again with his tennis racket, and Sam winced as he watched a pair of Christmas CDs in jewel cases crack against the smooth marble of the mantel, barely missing a row of snowglobes.

"Dean, dude," he tried to break into the chaos, "we just need to herd it to the door." He moved forward, maybe to grab the swinging tennis racket before it did any more damage to the Gerbers' house, or catch Dean before he did any more damage to himself slipping on his pants again. Either way, he was too late.

The panicked raccoon took a flying leap from the shelves, making one of the slats of wood topple from the wall, nearly missing the stereo set as it crashed to the carpet while Dean swung for the creature like a pro hitting a serve. He missed, luckily—because Sam wanted the raccoon out of the house and back to its hole, not dead. Not so luckily, his stroke landed right on the angel on top of the tree.

The raccoon landed next, hitting the windowsill and then launching off toward the middle of the room. Sam swished the broom, aiming it toward Castiel, and the angel, following Sam's lead, motioned with his hands until it was out the door. Dealing with the raccoon had meant leaving his brother to fend for himself, though.

Dean had gone straight into the evergreen tree, shirtless. The porcelain head had broken off of the angel on the top of the tree, and glass balls rained down like a blitz as his brother shook the branches with his weight. Sam privately thought it was a miracle the whole thing hadn't come down, or worse gone, through the glass window. Sam hurried over to help his groaning brother extricate himself from the tree.

"Did you get him?" Dean wanted to know. The tall hunter rolled his eyes.

"Relax, Rambo—we got him outside."

Dean was brushing pine needles off his skin and out of the waistband of his sagging pants. Sam shook his head, surveying the room with a sigh. It looked like a warzone, or a poltergeist hotspot or something. The whole chase had been over in moments, and Sam wasn't sure whether it had been the raccoon or the idiot with the tennis racket, but a number of things had been broken, particularly the treetopper. Sam reached up, lifting the remains of the beautiful figure from the topmost branch, realizing immediately that with her porcelain skull caved in there would be no gluing the pieces back together—possibly no finding the pieces, even.

Luckily, he knew a craft fair where they could get a replacement angel for the Gerbers' tree—and the cleanup could wait, because Sam's stomach chose just that moment to protest loudly any plan that did not involve eating so much he had to walk at least five miles to work it off.

.x.

The stars were disappearing one at a time. The clouds slipping across the sky were soft, just slender filaments of white and ethereal violet, but they were enough to hide the stars that had just begun to shine through the darkening sky. Castiel glanced up at the changing weather as the pedestrian mall on Pearl Street, a wide bricked walkway lined with small shops and restaurants, made the transformation from afternoon to evening, the streetlamps coming on with a flicker and the icicle lights hung from every storefront glowing against their plate-glass windows, pulses of brighter light running like melting water down the long strings on white wires. Next to him, Sam breathed out in a cloud of pale fog, reaching up to zip his coat all the way as the two walked beneath the dark trees of the open-air mall, their footsteps crunching on the remnants of snow lingering between the sidewalk bricks.

They had lost Dean nearly an hour before. After a day spent moving from restaurant to restaurant, during which Sam ordered only appetizers and shared them with Castiel while Dean devoured whole entrees with disdain, including several rounds of a dish called shrimp dynamite, the older Winchester had felt suddenly, inexplicably ill, clutching his stomach as he stumbled for the car. Sam had sent him off with instructions to take some antacids and sleep it off, but not before taking care of the mess he'd made of the Gerbers' living room that morning—Castiel had his doubts Dean would actually clean anything up, but he had a feeling Sam knew that, from the tiny, perceptive smile that had played across Sam's lips as they watched the taillights of the Impala disappearing into the river of other cars.

They had driven separately, because Dean was stubborn but something in the Impala was rattling and Sam preferred not to take the chance. Castiel had expected Sam to head at once for the Gerbers' van on the other side of the parking lot—but Sam had touched his elbow instead and drawn him back toward the mall, smiling slightly and asking if the angel would mind walking a little, for the sake of his own digestion. Castiel had glanced down at the hand on his arm and found he had no objection.

The air on Pearl Street was cool now that the sun was gone, but he and Sam were not the only ones walking; here and there they passed groups of adolescents all talking at the same time, or parents with small children suspended between their hands, words that Castiel could not understand pouring from their little mouths. But most people walking the mall did so in pairs of two, and walked with their arms around each other or their hands intertwined. Some smiled at him and Sam as they walked together, close enough that their shoulders brushed now and then; Castiel wondered if it was because they were wearing the same color, the dark blue of the sweater poking out from beneath his trench coat almost identical to the collar of Sam's button-down protruding from the top of his brown jacket. Perhaps synchronicity like that was unusual.

A long plastic bag swung from Castiel's elbow, bouncing against the side of his hip every so often as they walked. They had returned to the craft fair to buy a replacement angel for the Gerbers' tree, the same figure of a woman in a white dress that Sam had touched so reverently a few days before; her carefully packed box swayed now back and forth at his side, nestled down in the bag next to a carton of hand-painted snowman ornaments. Castiel had offered to hold the bag while Sam pulled on his thick black gloves, and then he had simply kept it, letting Sam's hands hang unburdened at his side. Sam seemed to appreciate the gesture, from the way he kept brushing the back of his hand against Castiel's. They had stepped into several other stores along the Pearl Street Mall, Sam looking at nothing in particular but occasionally lingering to run his fingers over a pair of leather gloves too small for him or a set of bookends carved from snowflake obsidian—and every time they stepped out of a doorway, Sam's hand shifted just enough to graze his, enough that Castiel had decided it was not an accident. He'd switched the bag of ornaments to his other arm so that their hands could skim together more easily.

They were nearing the western end of the mall, passing a store with a large Christmas tree decorated by dozens of painted paper flowers set up in its window, when Sam pulled him to a stop, an apologetic smile on his face. "Hey. Sorry. Can we sit down for a sec? My socks are sliding down into my boots," he explained, lifting one foot as if indicating the problem.

They found a bench in front of a bookstore and settled onto it, Sam hissing under his breath as if the metal slats were cold through his jeans. While he bent to unlace his boots, Castiel looked out into the darkness beyond the lighted street, where the mountains rose like a jagged black edge severing the earth from the sky. White lights had been strung into the shape of a star on one slope, and the angel fixed his gaze on that, wondering if the shape made the light stronger, in the minds of the people who looked at it. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Sam was wearing his new Christmas socks. They disappeared under the cuff of his jeans as Sam finished tying his shoelace and sat back on the bench, leaning into Castiel to keep his back away from the cold metal.

"I like this part of the city," Sam said. His voice was soft, and Castiel turned to watch the movement of his lips to be sure he caught everything, the words trailing away from Sam's mouth in puffs of white fog. Sam gave a small smile as he ducked his head and joined his hands in his lap. "Just, the shops, the decorations and everything. We never really traveled through big cities, and Christmas was always kinda…" Sam broke off, the silence of unsaid words that Castiel had learned to recognize as a hallmark of memories he didn't want to relive. He didn't push, just waiting in the stillness until Sam lifted his head again. "I've never really been in a place like this before," Sam finished, staring back into Castiel's eyes. "It's pretty. If I could…things are pretty crazy sometimes, and we never know where we're going, but…I'd like to be here again next year. Somewhere like this, I mean."

Castiel's wings were flickering at his back again. He wasn't sure what to do with them—whether to hold them up around the bench like a shield, a barrier between Sam and the uncertainty in his own words, or if he should try to reach out with them, extend them like human arms, see if Sam was still cold with a wing between him and the bench. Castiel turned away to stare at the storefronts across the way, large red and green bulbs blinking around the feet of display mannequins. The bag at his side crinkled as he shifted.

"You like the lights," he said, tracing the points of the hillside star with his eyes. Sam gave a breathy laugh and tipped his head back.

"Yeah, I guess," he replied after a moment.

The angel nodded. "You belong in the light, Sam. The darkness is wrong for you."

Castiel wasn't sure whether Sam heard him or not. His companion suddenly took a sharp intake of breath, his eyes widening as his face was lit by an unexpected glow; Castiel studied his astonished expression for just a moment before turning back to the view before them. The trees up and down Pearl Street had suddenly come alive with lights, great strings of tiny bulbs starting at the base of every tree and extending up into even the highest branches, wrapped so tightly that in the evening shadows it looked like the trees had disappeared altogether, replaced by glittering statues composed only of light. For the first instant, the trees were all white—but as they watched, the colors changed, every tree in both directions down Pearl Street suddenly a brilliant, otherworldly blue. Sam's lips parted around a tiny laugh, the sound so soft Castiel nearly missed it even though their shoulders were pressed together.

"Wow," Sam breathed, as his expression stretched into a full smile that crinkled the laugh lines around his eyes. "That's…incredible." The next second his hand was back on Castiel's arm as he gripped the angel's elbow in a tight squeeze, his head thrown back and his gaze fixed on the sky. "Cas—look. It's snowing," Sam said, the dimples rising to his cheeks. Castiel turned his face up, too, tracing the descent of every thin white flake falling out of the sky, like so many discarded angels.

Music was playing somewhere. Castiel thought it was the storefront behind them, the small independent bookstore with a dark red awning and piles of books stacked up in the windows, waiting for eager hands. He had heard the song enough by now to recognize "Winter Wonderland." It took him a moment to notice that there was an undercurrent to the track, notes that didn't quite fit into the melody and so soft that they were almost a whisper; then he turned to look at Sam, and realized that his companion was humming, his lips pressed together as he smiled into the sound. Castiel found himself staring at the light in Sam's eyes, the reflection of a forest of lit trees making gold and green of shadowed hazel.

Sam had been humming before, too, in the laundry room. Castiel had been distracted by his borrowed clothes, the ill fit of things not intended for him, but he had paused in the doorway for a heartbeat nonetheless to listen, watching Sam sway softly from foot to foot as he filled the washing machine. It had been a strange kind of music, rougher and slightly off key compared to the melody flowing from the Gerbers' living room or the speakers of the bookstore behind him—but as he listened to the stilted phrases of misremembered notes, Sam pausing in the middle of lines to breathe in through his nose, Castiel found himself questioning what music was, because though the song radiating from the bookstore speakers was unquestionably better, the intervals perfect and the melody blossoming out of careful strands of harmony, the sound of Sam humming was infinitely more captivating. Castiel studied the soft line of Sam's lips pressed together and wondered suddenly what his humming would sound like in the quiet, without any other music to overshadow it. He wondered if anyone had ever heard Sam hum like that.

"Are they really all different, Cas?"

Castiel blinked, startled from his thoughts by the soft question. It took him a moment to understand what Sam was talking about, not the notes of the song or even the young man sitting next to him on the bench, so distinct compared to the people walking by, their souls leaving as little impression on the angel as passing shadows—Sam meant the snowflakes that were still tumbling down over their heads, the air growing thick with them though the flakes themselves were thin and melted as soon as they touched the ground. Castiel watched them falling in Sam's dark eyes and felt his wings twitch along his spine.

"Yes, Sam. They are."

They were. But Sam was the one that stood out among them, with his soft smile and his hands folded unmoving in his lap, and the snowflakes glowing against the strands of his hair. Castiel wondered if it was the lights that made him look that way, or if Sam had always been so bright.

A snowflake had landed on Sam's cheek, resting along the bone. Castiel watched it for a long moment before lifting one hand to brush it away, his fingertips skimming over the smooth line of Sam's skin. Sam blinked and turned to look at him with unreadable eyes. Then he laughed under his breath and tipped his head to one side, sending a shower of flakes down on his shoulders.

"Sorry. I wasn't thinking yesterday, at the store. We should have gotten you some gloves, too."

Castiel let his hand settle back onto his thigh, his fingers curled around the memory of the warmth of Sam's cheek. "It's not necessary. I do not get cold, Sam," he replied, the reminder rolling easily from his tongue.

Sam just shook his head. "But you do, Cas. Even if you don't feel it." The tall hunter glanced down at his own hands in a pile in his lap, ensconced in heavy black gloves. Then he looked back up at Castiel and smiled, reaching out with his palm up. "Here. Give me your hands."

Castiel felt a small frown creasing his lips, his eyes vacillating between Sam's expression and the open hand being offered to him. "There is only one pair of gloves, Sam," he said gently. "If you give them to me, your hands will be cold."

Sam's smile stretched a little wider at the corners. "Nobody has to be cold, Cas," he promised.

Castiel hesitated, but in the end he reached out to Sam in return, surrendering both of his hands. Sam stripped off his right glove and pulled it onto Castiel's hand. The lining was warm from holding his body heat in—but nowhere near as warm as Castiel's left hand as Sam entwined their fingers and pressed their palms together, brushing his thumb over the angel's. Sam scooted closer on the bench and pushed their joined hands down into the pocket of Castiel's trench coat. He ducked his head as their shoulders came to rest together and then tightened his grip, sending a flare of warmth all the way to Castiel's fingertips. The lights in the trees turned red all together, glittering like burning stars in the icy store windows.

"Do you mind if we stay a little longer?" Sam asked. "To watch the lights?"

Castiel did not.


	12. December 11

**December 11**

"Dean—man, you can't be serious."

Sam fixed his brother with a puppy-dog expression he had been perfecting since he was a baby. Luckily, Dean had been working on his resistance for almost as long.

"You know what? It's simple," Dean said, shaking his head and flicking the collar of his leather jacket up. "In fact, I'll put it in equation form for you two." He looked pointedly at the pair that sat across from him on the rickety wooden picnic bench, doing their best to look scandalized. "Bell plus poltergeist equals really bad news—plus us, equals no more bells. Problem solved."

"But Dean…" Sam protested. He shifted and the bench creaked beneath them. They were at the Viele Lake Park, which was located between a rec center, a high school, and a massive hill covered in decorated residences, where the Gerbers' roof would peek out maybe from the very top. With all the lawn ornaments and Christmas lights on timers that lit up throughout the night, Dean thought the Gerbers' residence was probably visible from space.

Sam and Cas had left early that morning to walk around the lake that sat in the middle of the park—and Dean had given them the benefit of the doubt and assumed it was bell-related, because if not then he was going to have a serious talk with Sam, and maybe try to hire some woman to pick him up in a bar and get his head back on straight. Dean knew how dry spells could make a man desperate, but really, no one should be that desperate. Dean fixed a glare on Castiel across the picnic table while Sam worried his lip, tinkering with the phone in his hands.

When he had come down, the pair had been strolling— _strolling,_ there was no other word for it—on the path, greeting housewives and dogs and moving aside for runners in spandex costumes that Dean would have appreciated if they had been Joanies and not Johns. And Sam had been laughing, and Cas had the worst goo-goo eyes Dean had ever seen on a man, which made Dean wonder just what his brother had done to the previously mindless puppet.

And he would have given them the what-for—had shoved the rest of the cold Pop Tart into his mouth as he got out of the car in preparation, stopping only long enough to crumple up the silver plastic wrapping and toss it toward the trash can. But then the pair had been saved by the bell, literally.

The piece of plastic flew out from the lip of the trash can back into Dean's chest, accompanied by the most dulled and pathetic buzz from the bell in his pocket he had felt yet, like even the resonating bell understood how lackluster and underperforming a poltergeist had to be to throw trash at him. Dean had yanked the trash from the front of his jacket, throwing it more forcefully into the black bin and glancing around, expecting the usual hide-and-seek. Except that it hadn't taken more than a second to spot the bell—and the problem. Sam and Cas weren't nearly as much help as he hoped.

"Look, I just googled the guy, Dean," Sam said, holding the screen of his phone out to reveal a picture of a man who looked to be in his mid-to-late thirties, holding a pair of orange kittens with red bows tied around their necks. If Dean squinted, the picture sort of resembled the man standing near the entrance to the rec center where the hunter had parked.

"Ron Paulson is like a local hero—he runs the Volunteer Christmas Corps. They organize food drives for local families and arrange for children's choirs to sing at old folks' homes—and this year he donated half of his salary to an animal rescue." Sam did his best to imitate the expression of the poor rescued kittens as he shook the phone at Dean. His brother raised his eyebrows.

"And…?" he asked, drawing the word out. Sam bit his lip.

"And we can't just steal from him, Dean. He's like…well he's a really good person." The angel was nodding along with Sam like a bobble-head doll, his expression firm.

"Well, he's got a bell, and I don't really think he's going to put it down, so…" Dean looked over his shoulder, fixing Sam with a significant look when he turned back.

The picnic table they sat at was in a open area of grass about a hundred feet from the entrance of the rec center, which was decked out with a number of wreaths and garlands, and the thin wires that were probably lights around the roof, and if Dean strained his ears he could just hear the _clunk-a-clunk-a-clunka_ of a bell which was being rung by an almost unrecognizable Ron Paulson in a Santa suit, with a volunteer badge clipped on the edge of his coat and a red kettle hanging from a tripod with a grate for coins in the top.

"I don't know how the hell he's standing there ringing that demon bell without the earth reaching up and sucking him down in some freak accident anyway," Dean muttered. "Trust me, we'll be doing him a favor by taking it."

Sam winced, but Castiel perked up suddenly. "I believe I can answer that," the angel offered helpfully, which only made Dean scowl. He wasn't aware he had been asking any questions. "This Ron Paulson, is a man with very strong beliefs, committed to the charity work he is carrying out. Those kinds of beliefs rival the power of prayer, and might be able to suppress the energy of the bell for some time."

Sam's expression turned hopeful. "So maybe we don't need to get the bell right away?" he asked. Dean slammed his hand against the wood before he lost the attention of the other side of the table again.

"No, Sam—because we are not going to break into Ron Paulson's house and get arrested." He shrugged his shoulders, sitting up straighter. "We're gonna take care of this right now. We just need to go up there, distract him, take it, and run."

Sam looked horrified. "We're going to mug a volunteer Santa?" The look on his brother's face was priceless. Dean just shrugged.

"Tomato, to _mah_ to…" he said. Castiel had on an expression that said he hadn't followed the conversation as usual, but that he was planning on taking Sam's side anyway—and when had that started? Dean tried to put his finger on it, but then let it go. They had more important things to do right now—like steal a bell.

"Couldn't we just offer to buy it from him?" Sam wanted know. He took one more glance at the article in praise of Saint Ron before putting his phone away.

"No way," Dean said, "because if he says no, and then we steal it anyway, he'll have a description to give to the police, and between your height and my good looks we are anything but nondescript. And Cas, he just looks like a criminal." The angel gave Dean a slightly affronted look, glancing down at his suit and trench coat. The hunter just dug his hands in his pockets. He stood by that. No matter what kind of dopey hats his brother put on the guy, Cas was always just one creepy look away from skulking everywhere they went. An uncomfortable part of him called up the image of the angel and his brother hand in hand by the lake, but he shook it away.

"So I'll wait for the coast to be clear," Dean pushed on with a plan, not waiting for any more whining from Sam. If Dean let him, he knew his brother could go on all day like that. "Then I'll try to come up from behind him. One good clock—" Dean clicked his tongue and pantomimed a punch. "Then you grab the bell and we run like hell for the Impala."

"We can't hurt this guy," Sam protested. His eyes were wide, and he rubbed his hands against his pant legs. "He's like a manifestation of the Christmas spirit…

The girly argument made Dean want to gag and yank the ridiculous red scarf off his brother, and never go back to the Gerbers' holiday cheer trap—but his brother did have a point about one thing.

"That's true—we don't want the police investigating an assault, after all…" He trailed off, staring at Sam for a moment before his eyes drifted over to Castiel and it hit him. "Which is why we'll have Cas put the Vulcan neck pinch on him," Dean crowed. "Then I grab the bell, and as soon as I'm clear you can start yelling for help, Sam—tell some bystander he collapsed."

"I do not know this _Vulcan neck pinch_ ," Castiel said flatly, looking less than pleased.

"I know that. I just mean, put a whammy on him, you know—like you did with Bobby when we first met. Or use pressure points—whatever. You must know enough yoga voodoo to take him down even without angel mojo." Dean made a jabbing motion with his fingers; Castiel looked totally scandalized.

"You wish me to render this pious man unconscious?" Cas didn't look like he was getting ready to agree, and Dean knew he had to pull out the big guns. He turned back to Sam.

"Well, I guess we're back to mugging, huh?" he told his brother, with a helpless shrug. Sam's expression tightened, and then he sighed, turning to Castiel.

"It's really better than the man getting hurt," Sam said in a low, apologetic voice, but Dean wasn't sorry, because the previously reluctant angel was turning his head, listening and being won over, just as Dean knew he would be.

"Give me that scarf, Sammy," Dean said, reaching over to pull it off his brother's neck without waiting for an answer. As official bell thief, he would still need a disguise, after all.

.x.

Sam fingered the hastily scrawled note in his pocket. He hadn't had any paper on him except the coffee receipt from that morning, luckily paid for in cash and untraceable, so he sucked on the end of his pen, scrawled a few words, and then wrapped the paper around a couple hundreds—all the money he had in his wallet.

Dean's plan had gone off without a hitch, and Sam had watched in horror as Castiel walked slowly over to the man and reached up a pair of fingers. And then Ron Paulson had crumpled to the ground. And Dean—looking like the Hamburgler with Sam's red scarf wound round and round his nose and mouth and Cas's blue hat covering his hair—ran over madly, grabbing the bell from the man's limp hand and shoving it down his shirt. Then he had grabbed the angel's arm and they made a run for it.

It hadn't taken much for Sam to get people's attention—the general consensus seemed to be that anything bad happening to a Christmas volunteer was a tragedy, and the tall hunter felt terribly guilty as a woman with a baby stroller screeched over, calling for someone to get an EMT from the rec center. Sam approached the edge of the crowd cautiously, and then with a silent apology to Ron Paulson and the spirit of Christmas, he shoved the note and the money into the red kettle and walked hastily toward the other end of the park, where the getaway vehicle would be waiting for him.

And Sam had a feeling that if anything bad happened to them on the way home, it wasn't going to be the bell—it was going to karma, because a hastily written _I'm so sorry, hopefully this will cover the cost of the bell_ and a little bit of money wasn't nearly enough to balance out mugging a charity Santa. Sam rolled his eyes skyward, and he wasn't sure if he was asking for forgiveness or just clemency.


	13. December 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special Note: If you're looking for a fun SPN Christmas video with a little Cas/Sam slash, check out AccidentaLeft's YouTube channel and look for "Cas vs. Christmas." My friend made it last year, and it's very funny.

**December 12**

Castiel disliked getting dragged into Dean's activities. The older Winchester usually preceded whatever it was with an arm over Castiel's shoulder and an incitement of "C'mon, it'll be fun," accompanied occasionally by a request to "loosen up" or to "take that giant holy stick out of your ass for two seconds, you winged douchebag"—but whatever Dean said to get him involved, Castiel hadn't yet enjoyed one of the messes he'd been pulled into, whether it was the drinking contest Dean had tried to coerce him into joining at a local restaurant or the nearly inexcusable attack on a charity worker at the lake near the Gerbers' house, a crime whose ends Castiel still was not sure justified the means. No matter what Dean wanted on a particular day, Castiel had discovered two things about assisting him: it was not, in fact, _fun_ , and he generally ended up getting his hands dirty.

Dean's project today was his car. There had been room for the Impala in the Gerbers' two-car garage, and this had pleased Dean until he realized that Harold Gerber had no mechanical tendencies, and as a result had next to none of the tools Dean needed to perform more than a tune-up. He had dragged Castiel down to assist him instead. The angel had wondered what Dean expected him to be able to do, not having any more experience with cars than Harold Gerber—but it turned out that all Dean wanted him to do was hold up the front of the car, in the absence of a jack, and to listen while he threw out complaints about people who saddled grease monkeys with their car maintenance instead of learning how to do it themselves, and the occasional gripe demanding how Sam could go on and on about how perfect the house was when it didn't even have a workable garage. Castiel had chosen not to mention that car maintenance hadn't been one of his criteria for a temporary residence for the Winchesters.

By the time Dean slid out from under the car and allowed him to set it back on its front wheels, Castiel's hands were coated in oil and grime, a slick black smudge discoloring his fingers. Castiel was relieved he'd thought to remove his coat and roll his shirt up to his elbows before they began; Dean had grimaced while he did it, but the angel had a strong suspicion that motor oil was something else that would have required a dry cleaner. He wanted to avoid a return trip as long as possible. Still, he wasn't particularly pleased with the oil on his skin, and as Dean straightened up from the concrete floor he held his hands out to the hunter, silently asking for a solution.

"Well, thanks, Cas—you were exactly as useful as a very basic lever with four moving parts and one really long screw," Dean was saying as he packed his own tools back into the green metal toolbox. When he finally turned around and noticed Castiel's hands, he rolled his eyes, reaching in through the open passenger window of the car and pulling out a small plastic tub. "Christ. Here." The top of the tub popped off to reveal a swirl of white cream, and Dean slapped a glob of it on Castiel's fingers before forcing his hands together. "Rub that around—it'll take the oil off."

Castiel did as Dean had instructed, moving his hands slowly back and forth—but though the oil mixed into the cream, it didn't seem to go anywhere, just sliding down to coat his palms as well. He watched the substance for a moment, searching for any signs of a chemical reaction, and then he held them out again, his blue eyes narrowed above a small frown.

"It isn't working," Castiel said. Dean threw his head back with a groan.

"Jeez, Cas—were you in the john the day God was installing the common sense software? Go upstairs and bother Sam—he's probably puttering around in that kitchen he loves so much. I gotta take my baby out for a drive, see if we fixed that rattle."

Castiel had no idea what rattle Dean was referring to, though he had some vague notion the hunter had been describing the problem on and off from beneath the hood of the car; the words had been muffled, and the few he'd managed to decipher hadn't meant much to him. But the idea of seeking out a more helpful Winchester appealed to him. Without replying he turned away and stepped back into the house, careful to wipe his feet on the rubber doormat featuring a cheerful family of snowmen in bulky coats. Castiel found their wide coal smiles a little strange, considering their position.

The Christmas music was on again. It got louder as he ascended the stairs, and from the rustle of plastic and the clink of pans that broke through the music intermittently like a counterpoint, Castiel thought Dean was probably right about his brother's location. He almost called out to Sam as he reached the top of the stairs, more than ready to have the white and black swirls of cream removed from his hands—but he stopped as he crossed into the dining room and finally caught a glimpse of the kitchen, drawing to a halt at the edge of the long table.

Sam stood at the counter with a menagerie of bowls and silverware spread around him on the pale granite, one hand gripping the curve of a clear glass bowl while the other churned a wooden spoon around and around, mixing soft brown dough. The counters were strewn with measuring cups and spoons, the top of a carton of eggs flopping open next to a half stick of butter with the waxed paper ripped slightly at its edges, and a few slick lines through the dusting of flour gave the impression that Sam had tried to wipe up as he went but had lost control of the process at some point and had surrendered the sponge. But what stilled Castiel's footsteps across the patterned rug was the image of Sam himself; over his cream-colored sweater he had tied an apron, red with laughing gingerbread men and a border of entwined candy canes, and had bound a red cloth the same color over his hair, holding his bangs back out of his face and letting his eyes shine in the sunlight through the kitchen window. There was a white smudge across one of his cheeks, as if left by the back of a careless hand, and across his forehead the smallest crease of concentration, just enough to crinkle his nose. Castiel felt his lungs expanding strangely, as if he had stopped breathing for a moment but failed to notice.

The crystal star was spinning in the window, the breath of the heater in the floor twisting it on its string, and as it unwound it threw rainbows across Sam's hand bracing the bowl, turning the arcs of his fingers red and green and violet. Castiel stared at those fingers gripping the clear glass and wondered if he had ever liked a smile better than the one curving Sam's lips now—careless, and relaxed, and unconsciously soft, as if he had surrendered himself completely to the bowl of cookie dough and forgotten all the rest.

Castiel had almost forgotten why he had come upstairs by the time Sam's gaze suddenly lifted to find him, hazel eyes blinking as his mouth fell open. "Cas! Hey—sorry, I didn't see you," Sam said, his smile widening from absent to inviting. "Mrs. Gerber left this recipe and a jar of cookie mix. All the dry ingredients are already measured, so you just mix them together and add the eggs and milk and…" He trailed off as his eyes fell on Castiel's hands, and his forehead wrinkled, confusion upsetting the softness of his expression. "What happened to your hands?" he asked, rubbing his arm over his temple as if to brush back the hair that was so often in his eyes.

Castiel glanced down at himself, flexing his fingers under the crust of graying cream. "I was assisting Dean with the car. The oil is supposed to come off."

Understanding dawned on Sam's face in an instant, and then his lips pressed into a very different kind of smile, one Castiel had seen often when Dean was involved. "Oh, it's—the jelly, yeah. Sorry. Dean's a jerk. Um—come here, Cas." Castiel complied and let Sam lead him over to the sink. The tall hunter ripped a few paper towels from the roll and used them to wipe the cream from his hands; Castiel was relieved to see that the oil was coming off as well. Sam sent him a smile. "Now just some soap and water. Stick out your hands?"

Castiel did as he was asked. Warm water poured over his hands from the kitchen faucet while Sam dumped a generous pool of the green apple-scented dish soap from the bottle beside the sink into his own cupped hand. Then suddenly his hands were under the spray, too, massaging the soap into the spaces between Castiel's fingers, one thumb spreading soap across the lines of the angel's palm. Castiel stared down at their hands, his and Sam's, tangled together under the rush of water. Then he curled his fingers in and caught the edges of Sam's, and Sam laughed and squeezed back, his breath just brushing the angel's cheek.

"Don't worry, Cas. It comes right off." Castiel stared up at him as Sam tipped his head to one side, throwing a short nod at the messy counter behind him. "Once you're good, do you want to help me make cookies? Mrs. Gerber said to use an air-bake cookie sheet, and I have no idea what I'm looking for."

Castiel had no idea what an air-bake cookie sheet was, either, but he nodded all the same. He didn't know any more about baking than he knew about car repair, but he did know he wanted to be a part of anything that could put that soft, untroubled smile on Sam's face. Especially if there was a chance they'd need to wash their hands again.

.x.

Dean ducked his head, pulling the ridiculously lacy curtain of the Gerbers' front window aside with one hand and chewing on a Snickers. Why the fuck anyone would want a doily in their window was beyond him, and he had to kick down an eerie sense of deja vu regarding freak neighbors and their voyeurism through curtains. But damn it, Dean was just looking out for his little brother here.

Sam and Cas were heading out for another double dose of Christmas in the form of some show, or some exhibit, or some candy cane dance performed by dogs for charity or something. It was all blurring together in Dean's head in one long, horrifying nightmare. It was a Christmas ballet starring a hundred Santas with a thousand bells in a never-ending succession of acts. And when was the fucking intermission?

Dean pinned the white curtain against the wall with one hand, swallowing the last chunk of peanuts and caramel—possibly not chewed as well as it could be. It went down as a hard lump. The Gerbers' mom-mobile van had been parked outside the night before so that Dean could have the space in the garage to fix the Impala—which he had, like a pro, even though his assistant had been little better than Vana White without the looks, which was a pair of lifted hands with no brains behind them. It had apparently snowed a little the night before, covering the Gerbers' monstrous vehicle with a thin layer of white.

The sun was only peeking out from behind the clouds, putting a small sheen on the window but not obscuring the figures beyond. Dean's hand fisted in the white lace. Sam had his hands curled up into the sleeve of his jacket and he was smiling widely, flashing his teeth and laughing. Castiel was in some ugly-ass, puffy brown coat that made his hair look like a pile of straw on his head. The two approached the car, and Sam leaned close to the angel, saying something into his ear or possibly just the puffed-out collar swallowing his head. Castiel didn't move away at all; instead his hand came up slowly to slide across Sam's back, and he nodded. Sam smiled, saying something else and then moving away to the other side of the car.

It was harder to recognize the angel like this: without the trench coat, without the arrogant holier-than-thou-lowly-humans look Dean had thought was permanent on all of the heavenly wing brigade. He had changed, maybe, and Dean wasn't sure why the thought made his stomach flip-flop uncomfortably. If anything, Cas had just gotten creepier…

Dean held onto the assessment and the curtain as Sam used his ridiculously long form to stretch halfway across the front of the car, rubbing his sleeve down the window to knock the snow loose. He was laughing again, with snow sticking to his coat and hair, hanging stupidly over the car while Castiel copied his move, leaning from the other side. It was like Sam never stopped laughing with the angel these days—laughing like he hadn't in a long time.

Their faces were close now, with Sam lying across the hood and the angel bent down, and then that awkward fucker slid his hands farther, working to push the snow diligently off of the hood. And despite the fact that Dean had _repeatedly_ warned his brother that not telling Cas when he was fucking up something obvious—like the fact that once the window was clear the rest of the car was fine—was only going to lead to a badly trained angel, there was Sam _reveling_ in it, joining in pushing snow off the hood of the van. Dean sincerely hoped he was the only suburban spy, because the Termineighbor didn't need any more ammo to put them in her freaky robot sights. They could wipe the whole fucking van with their bodies for the rest of the afternoon like some perverse winter car wash—which should really only be run by babes as far as Dean was concerned.

He held the curtain a moment longer, watching the way his brother's wide eyes sparkled, and wondered again what Cas's damage was. Sam was a gargantuan Sasquatch with all the grace of overgrown moose, and that was not the look a person was supposed to give the abominable Bigfoot monster diving at snowdrifts on a van.

Dean's phone rang out to the tune of the Grinch, making him turn with a shake of his head, snatching the black plastic and flipping it open. He didn't even have to look at the number—he had set that ringtone as soon as they arrived.

"Hey, Bobby," he greeted, barely waiting for the grunted response before turning and making a face at the lacy-doily curtain still swinging at the window. "You wouldn't believe Sam and Cas these days…" he started.

There was a shuffling sound on the other side, like Bobby was shifting in his chair, or maybe nudging something around on that overflowing junk pile he called a desk. "Oh, I'll bet I would," the older hunter grumbled.

"What?" Dean asked, pausing and squinting down at the phone. He could just imagine the Grinch himself, leaning back in that beat-up office chair with the squeaky wheels, scowling at the phone, or his book, or Dean across the nether space of the power lines. Then there was a long sigh, and the hunter heard the distinct sound of a heavy book being closed, the hardback covers thumping together.

"Let's hear it, Dean," Bobby prompted, and Dean felt vindicated to have the older hunter's complete attention for once. At least somebody was still bothering to listen to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who's read this far. I hope you've all enjoyed the developing story. Tomorrow's chapter is a longer one, and kicks off the second half of the story, which is more serious. Hopefully it'll still be an enjoyable read.


	14. December 13

**December 13**

The old church on the west end of Linden Avenue was cordoned off by a line of yellow caution tape, and screwed into the one of the huge double doors was an order for demolition, to be carried out by the end of the month. Sam studied the ancient building as he climbed out of the passenger seat of the Impala, his eyes moving from the collapsing roof still sheltering a few patches of snow to the stone bell tower with square turrets, backlit by the sun sinking slowly toward the mountains. A few large gray stones had tumbled down from the tower and landed on the stairs leading up to the double doors, leaving cracks and rubble across the red flagstone walkway; between those and all the dark, half-broken windows, it reminded Sam of a crumbling castle, a hulking structure that had lost all its color and warmth and was now just intimidating. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he stepped around the hood of the car and into the silent street, his feet crunching through the hardened snow in the gutter, all that was left of the storm two weeks before.

The Church of the Sacred Messiah had first been built in the late 1880s, a few decades after the city of Boulder itself was established. It had been first a rectory, then a cloister, and around Mary-Margaret Constance's time it had been a church that focused on charity work for the sick and poor, carried out mostly by nuns. Sam hadn't been able to find out much about the church from that point until it closed its doors in the 1990s, giving up finally on an ever-dwindling crowd of worshippers. The building had been used on and off for community events until November of that year, when the eastern wing of the church and part of the bell tower had suddenly come tumbling down, crashing into the parking lot and the neighborhood park next door. No one had been hurt, and a building inspection had decided that a crack in the foundation was to blame, the result of years of neglect—but Sam couldn't manage to convince himself that was all that had happened, not least because the bells had been buried under this church for more than a hundred years, as far as they could tell. Even knowing that the bells were gone, the building seemed malicious to him, the long shadow of its ruined bell tower stretching out to cover the Impala and the tall hunter standing next to it. He couldn't shake the impression that the broken windows over the doors looked like empty eye sockets.

"Who's surprised they're tearing this place down."

Sam jumped at his brother's voice and turned around to find Dean leaning on his door, the keys dangling from his hand. Sam wanted to hope Dean had missed his flinch, but he was out of luck in that department, if the look he got as Dean moved out of the way and then slammed his door was any indication.

"Wow. Scared of a little old church now, Sammy?" he asked, raising his eyebrows above his favorite asshole smile. "And here I thought that was your thing." Then he reached behind him and banged on the back window, ducking down far enough to peer into the second row of seats. "Cas. Get out already. This isn't a drive by."

Castiel sent Dean a look Sam recognized all the way through the window. The last member of their party did as he was asked and climbed deliberately out of the car, but he kept his eyes fixed on the church the whole time—he didn't look worried, just thoughtful, but considering the angel's insistence when they left the Gerber house that there wasn't even a reason to come here, Sam didn't find that very reassuring.

They had been chasing their tails for four days on the Mary-Margaret Constance angle, unable to uncover anything more than Dean had learned from Marilyn the cookie mogul, and Dean had finally suggested that they go check out the Church of the Sacred Messiah and see if they could get any answers from the source. Castiel had been skeptical, assuring them that the angel dispatched to verify the prophet's dream had found only two bells, at which point Dean had assured him that angels were featherbrained asshats who couldn't find their own wings in the dark, and Sam had told his brother to shut up and drive already. Castiel had spent most of the car ride with a pinched look on his face, which Sam had checked on occasionally in the rearview mirror—but about the time they'd passed the North Boulder Rec Center the angel had straightened in the back seat, staring out the windows with purpose as they drove west on Linden and finally rolled up across the street from the church.

Castiel moved to stand next to Sam in the middle of the road, and the tall hunter glanced over at him, noting the way Cas's eyes narrowed as he studied the gaping hole where the east wall of the church had fallen. He reached out and brushed a hand down the angel's sleeve, drawing those piercing blue eyes up to meet his. Sam attempted a smile.

"What is it, Cas?" he asked, feeling the expression die on his lips before it had even really formed. Castiel glanced back at the church.

"There is a strong concentration of demonic energy here. I could sense it from a considerable distance away. It is… very powerful," the angel said, his gaze flickering between the broken windows lined with shards of colored glass. Sam put his hands back in his pockets and clenched them in the fabric.

"Well, the bells were here, right? So it makes sense that whatever demonic presence they came in contact with would have been here too, and left some of its energy behind. Doesn't it?" he asked, suddenly not sure anymore once he got to the end of the question.

Castiel pressed his lips together. "Yes," he said in a low voice. But the seriousness of the angel's expression told Sam that whatever Cas was feeling, _no_ might have been a truer answer. The sun wasn't down yet, and it wasn't that cold out, but the tall hunter zipped his coat up the rest of the way all the same, a shudder rolling down his back. He knew churches were sacred ground, and sanctuary from most of the things that went bump in the night. But he also knew that the really bad things never seemed to care much about sacred ground, and looking at the fissure in the foundation of the church, one wall reduced to rubble and the roof sagging under its tiles, he wondered how much of that holiness was left.

Dean obviously wasn't getting the same horror movie vibe from the church as Sam was. He became painfully aware of this when Dean threw an arm around his neck and almost scared Sam out of his skin, lurching up between him and Cas with a roll of his bright green eyes. "You guys have really dumb hobbies. Can you look at boring-ass old buildings on your own time, please? Come on—let's get this over with."

Castiel had sent him a glare, and Sam had shoved his brother off, barely restraining himself from elbowing Dean in the stomach. But he had felt some of his tension slipping away at his brother's familiar antics, and his sense of impending doom retreated a little as he followed Dean up the stairs, the angel walking close behind him.

Dean was out of practice at lock-picking, but it didn't take much this time—there was only an old padlock on the door, secured to a length of silver chain that seemed way too rusty for having been put there in November. Sam looked away from Dean for a moment to spare a glance over his shoulder, just to make sure no horrified neighbors were watching their break-in while speed-dialing the cops; the street was empty, though, and the houses that had grown up around the church were all quiet, almost weirdly so for five o'clock on a weekday. He couldn't see a lit window anywhere up or down the street. Sam shook his head and willed himself not to think about it as the padlock popped free and he helped Dean pull the heavy wooden door open so that they could step inside. Castiel followed them in and then closed the door effortlessly with two fingers, reminding Sam again just how strong the other man was.

Dean leaned back on his heels and whistled, the sound echoing faintly through the darkened space. "Huh. I think I saw this place on Scooby Doo one time."

Aside from the fact that Dean was an idiot and his idea of educational TV was a kids' cartoon from the eighties, Sam was sort of inclined to agree with him. The inside of the church looked about as wrecked as the outside. The eastern side of the building, under the broken wall, was cluttered with chunks of stone and splintered pews, rimmed in a few places with crusts of snow that had fallen through, while the roof was bowing over their heads, some of the wooden rafters sporting huge cracks that looked like they ran all the way through the beams. At the head of the nave stood the altar, which had been made of stone and was probably as old as the church itself; now it was shattered in about eight pieces, and the crucifix that always hung on the back wall of the apse had fallen partway down, the top of the cross snagged on the stone wall and holding the rest of it up at an angle while the figure of Jesus sagged from its center, his eyes locked on the dusty pews. Only the western wall of the church appeared undamaged; three intact stained glass windows were set into the flat gray stone, and Sam recognized the pictures as depicting Christ's resurrection, the colored glass on fire with the red light of the setting sun. The bars of metal between each piece of glass cast unusually thick shadows across the empty aisles. Sam wrapped his arms over his chest.

"Okay, this did not happen from a weak foundation," he said, his words barely a whisper by the time they left his lips.

Dean snorted. "Home sweet home, huh, Cas?" He reached out to press one hand to the back of the closest pew—but a second later he was pulling it back, hissing and cursing under his breath as he shook his hand hard. "Sonofabitch," Dean ground out, holding his fingers up. Sam's heartbeat thudded in his ears at the line of red cutting across the joints of all four fingers.

"Dean," he said, panic making the name a little sharp. He stepped forward and grabbed his brother's wrist, using his thumb to hold back Dean's writhing fingers so that he could get a good look at the cut; he was relieved to see that it wasn't that deep, not even bleeding beyond the single line of red marring his flesh. He looked up to meet Dean's eyes and fought down the instinct to bite his lip. "What happened, man? What'd you touch?"

"Fucking pew," Dean bit out. "There's a Goddamn nail sticking up in the back. Ah, that stings like a bitch. Mother of all paper cuts."

Sam let go of his brother's hand to examine the pew beside them. It took him a moment to find the nail—it was the same rust-brown color as the wood, and wickedly sharp, just the curve of its thin, brittle head protruding from the backrest. Sam shared a glance with Castiel, and then his eyes found Dean's again, one hand drifting to rest over the lump that was always in his left jacket pocket.

"Did you feel anything from the bell?" he asked. His stomach sank as Dean shook his head.

"Not so much as a tingle," his brother confirmed, which wasn't the answer Sam wanted. The bells were serious and unpredictable, but he had gotten used to the idea of at least knowing what was coming at them, as opposed to going into everything blind and half-cocked, like they usually did. Dean must have caught the look on his face, because he dropped his hand to his side and nudged Sam's arm with his elbow, that familiar bump of contact that was all the comfort Dean could muster most days. "Hey. It was an accident, Sam. Don't wig out on me. Now come on—let's figure out where those bells were."

Sam had a feeling, suddenly, that absolutely nothing in this church happened by accident. But he bit the words back and followed Dean deeper into the church, lifting his feet carefully over chunks of stone from the broken wall. He had only gone a few steps when he felt a soft pressure on his coat, Castiel setting his hand gently against his lower back, and the touch warmed his skin all the way through his jacket. In the end, though, Sam couldn't decide what won out: the comfort of knowing God's all-powerful angel was walking at his back, or the fact that Castiel was unsettled enough to be trying to reassure him.

Since the church in Rachel Loughton's dream had already been demolished, they didn't have much to go on in looking for the site where the bells had been—but Dean made the point that the bells couldn't very well have been buried where there wasn't any ground, so they tried to make their way under the floor of the church, looking for stairs first, and then, after Sam decided the building was probably too old to have a basement, climbing down through the wreckage near the east wall. One huge chunk of stone had tumbled through the floor of the nave and stuck out at the top like a submerged iceberg, and they used that to scramble down, Dean going first because he apparently had no reservations about what might be lurking in the darkness beneath the floors of busted-up churches, then Sam, then finally Castiel. Sam wished he had a headlamp, or a floodlight or something, but all he had brought from the car was his mini Maglite; he held it in his teeth as he climbed down the heap of stones, trying to pick out footholds in its swaying beam.

The hollow beneath the church was bigger than Sam would have expected, a stretching expanse of pitch blackness broken by thick stone pillars extending from the foundation overhead to the rocky soil below. Sam was nearly to the bottom when he felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, just a prickle of foreboding—then his foot slipped out from under him and all of a sudden he was sliding down into the darkness, the flashlight slipping through his teeth and his hands clawing at the rough surface of the stones. He hit the ground with a jolt that snapped his head back against the fallen chunk of wall. For a moment Sam just sat there, trying to catch his breath and decide whether the ache in his head was really noteworthy or just going to give him a really attractive lump on the back of his skull for a few days, but he was quickly distracted from that by the pain in his hands, a dull throb that burned like fire the more he thought about it.

His flashlight had landed nearby, and Sam lifted it into his lap, pointing it at his chest so he could see his hands. His breath hitched in his throat. His palms were red and ragged, as if the flesh had been ripped from them by jagged teeth, with long shallow grooves cut across the insides of his fingers where he had tried to find something to hold onto. Sam struggled to swallow, his throat suddenly too tight even to breathe. It was a nothing injury, barely a scrape; he had gotten worse road rash from wiping out in a parking lot. But he couldn't tear his eyes away from his red hands, and he couldn't shake the certainty that that had not been an accident, just like the nail on the back of the pew—that there was something nasty hiding out in this church, even beyond whatever demonic energy had touched the bell in his pocket, just as silent now as it had been upstairs. Sam felt his nerves prickling again in a sensation he recognized, had known nearly all his life—a poltergeist, or something very close to it.

Sam stared down at his hands, his fingers shaking in the sharp glare of the flashlight. He could hear Castiel sliding down above him, Dean shouting something back to him about his beauty and his grace—but his ears felt like they were filled with water, and he couldn't focus on anything but his hands, the burn that was spreading over every inch of his skin. The darkness closed in at the edge of his vision, shifting like some nightmare creature as it surrounded him. His lungs were constricted, his breaths too shallow, his heart pounding like thunder in his eardrums. He couldn't breathe. He was trapped beneath a church, with a poltergeist, and he couldn't breathe.

All of a sudden there were hands on his wrists, jerking them up out of the light, and Sam's lungs opened with a gasp, his head falling back as he took a deep breath and stared up into piercing blue eyes. Castiel's fingers were tight as shackles around his wrists, and he pulled on Sam's arms again, twisting them until he couldn't see his ragged palms anymore, his hands raised to the angel as if in supplication. "Sam," he said sharply, and as the water drained from his ears Sam got the feeling it wasn't the first time Castiel had called his name. "Sam, look at me. The wound is not deep. You must calm down."

Castiel looked more than a little wired himself. Sam might have pointed that out if he hadn't felt another shiver run down his spine just then, prickling the skin at the base of his neck. Castiel seemed to feel something, too, judging by the way the angel's eyes narrowed and his grip tightened around Sam's wrists. There was a scuffing sound from behind him, and then Dean appeared at Castiel's shoulder, shining his own flashlight straight in Sam's face.

"Sam!" Dean shouted, his worry sounding, as usual, a lot like anger. He shoved at Castiel's arm, like he wanted the angel out of the way—but Castiel was solid as stone, and in the end Dean had to settle for bending over Sam as far as he could, scowling at his brother and the darkness and everything else. "The hell happened, Sammy? One minute you're doing the basic ass-slide down that stone wall, and the next you're just sitting here, white as a sheet and shaking like a heroin addict. Did you hit your head?" He reached out and tugged a hand through Sam's hair, gripping a few strands and making Sam wince.

"Yes. No. It was…" He tried to glance at his hands again, the burn of raw skin distracting him, but Castiel held them away from him, squeezing his wrists to warn him to let it go. Sam's eyes wandered up to the angel's and held there as he breathed shallowly to keep himself from hyperventilating again. "It was the poltergeist. Or its cousin. Whatever. Negative energy to a seriously bad degree. I could feel it, just before it happened."

Dean was definitely angry now. "Feel what? What poltergeist? The hell are you talking about?" He waved one hand around at the darkness and the stone ceiling looming over their heads. "We're in a church. That's supposed to be a poltergeist-free zone. Unless this religion's been lying to me again," Dean finished, shooting a glare at Castiel. Sam doubted the angel even saw it; he could feel that gaze fixed on his face, steady as a beam of light.

"I believe I can explain, Dean," Castiel said, and Sam was really glad to hear that, because he wasn't sure he could.

The angel shifted his grip slightly, and it wasn't until that moment that Sam realized Castiel was holding him exactly where Uriel had, the same spot on his wrist where the dark angel had left an angry handprint branded to his skin—but all he could think about was how different it felt, Castiel holding him tight but carefully avoiding the stitches on his right forearm, and squeezing, gently, just enough to remind Sam that one of the pressure points in the wrist was for heart palpitations. He wondered if Cas knew that, or if the angel was just trying to comfort him.

"As soon as we arrived, I noticed that this house of worship was filled with demonic energy, the same demonic energy as is attached to the bells," Castiel said.

"Yeah, you said that," Dean cut in, finally releasing his hold in Sam's hair and straightening as far as the stone ceiling would let him. "And Sam said the bells were stored here, so it was normal. I was paying attention. How fucking stupid do you think I am?"

Sam knew the profanity was just another kind of worry, his brother agitated as he always was when things were out of his control—but he sent Dean a glare anyway, because they were still under a church. Castiel breathed out hard, maybe the angel's approximation of a sigh.

"It _isn't_ normal," he said, his tone sharper than before. "This amount of energy is unexpected, even considering the strength of the demonic taint within the bells. I do not think the bells alone would be enough to cause this." The angel glanced up at Dean, and then back at Sam, his eyes softening a little as he went on. "I believe that whatever demonic entity is responsible for tainting the bells was here, at its full strength, and then held here for some time. Perhaps until the bells were moved."

"But this is a church," Dean protested. "Shouldn't the demon have exploded the second it stepped through the door? Or like, the church exploded from that thing hanging around? How are those two things not duking it out? This is sacred ground, Cas."

"This _was_ sacred ground," Castiel snapped, his eyes narrowing as he stared up at Dean. "While it was under the blessing of constant prayer, the building was strong enough to contain the demonic creature. But it is nothing now—a shattered temple with a broken altar and a broken wall. What holiness would you expect to find in a place like this?" Castiel paused, as if catching himself, and slowly his gaze wandered back to Sam, his lips pressed together so tightly they were almost white. Sam tried to offer him a weak smile, but he was pretty sure he failed. The angel exhaled softly. "Even in the small amounts that surround the bells, this demonic taint attracts negative energy. In a place like this, the negative energy it has drawn in must be infinitely more powerful. It doesn't require the bell as a conduit here—this entire site is a conduit."

Castiel opened his mouth partway, as if he had something else to say; but in the end he kept quiet, and Sam found himself swallowing as those blue eyes came back to him, the angel's eyebrows drawing together in an expression that was half worry and half regret. Sam got the sudden impression that Cas thought all of this was his fault. He wanted to say something, to tell Cas he was wrong and convince him that he was okay, maybe just to turn his hands a little and slide them down until their fingers were intertwined—but he didn't get a chance to do anything before Dean was speaking again.

"Okay. So badass demon motherfucker meets the poltergeist from hell." Dean was back in hunter mode, his features set, ready to shoot salt or iron at whatever the darkness threw at him. Sam didn't even know where his brother got that confidence, but it was a relief to see it sometimes. "What's the plan, Cas?" Dean asked. "What's our best move here?"

Castiel brushed his thumbs down the veins in Sam's wrists, the touch so soft it almost tickled. "Find the site where the bells were buried. And then we leave. As rapidly as possible."

Sam felt his stomach clench at the deathly stillness of the angel's voice, and in the second before Dean answered he wondered if his brother had felt it too, the shiver down his back at the idea of something that could put Cas on edge. But Dean was only quiet for a second before he seemed to find his nerve again, his brusque nod perfectly casual.

"Awesome. Well, I'll work on that. Sam, why don't you see if you can get the blood flowing back to your face, okay? Vampire pasty is just not your color."

Sam tried to inch his way into sitting up straight, which turned out to be harder than he'd expected with his hands in a vise grip in front of him. "Dean, wait. I can help. We'll be done faster—"

"Oh no," Dean cut him off, turning back just far enough to wave an accusing finger in Sam's direction. "You are gonna sit there until I'm confident you can stand up without swooning, princess. We can't have you passing out down here—Cas's got his wings clipped, and there's no way in hell I'm dragging your ass back up that slope." Dean's tone was harsh, but Sam could hear the worry behind it, like he always could, especially when Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair and then let it drop to his side, all of the fire suddenly gone from his expression. "So just chill for a minute, all right, Sam? I got this. Cas?" he added over his shoulder.

Castiel tipped his head slightly. "Yes," he said.

"Great," Dean shot back. Then he turned away and vanished into the darkness, his footsteps and the sweep of his flashlight the only evidence that he hadn't disappeared completely.

Sam let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Without it his lungs felt crushingly empty—he thought that was probably just relief, but all the same he thought for a minute that his rib cage was going to collapse in on itself, fed up with trying to hold in his pounding heart. His eyes slipped away from the flickers of Dean's flashlight and back to Castiel, still kneeling next to him in the dirt, looking at him like the whole world lived and died every time he took a breath, like there was nowhere in the span of the entire universe that he would be right now except right there, on his knees, holding Sam's hands between their bodies like he was teaching him to pray—and suddenly Sam realized he was shaking, not just his hands but his whole body, shivering against the wall of fallen stone. And it was stupid, it was so stupid, but adrenaline always worked that way, taking him by surprise the second he thought he was okay, that he had everything under control. Castiel's hands were warm on his wrists and Sam felt safe for the first time since they'd stepped into the church, because an angel was kneeling in front of him, holding his hands—and that was why he was shaking like he might just shake to pieces. Sam laughed but it came out as a choke, and then Castiel was peering into his eyes and Sam was shaking his head, not even sure what he was trying to say no to.

"Sorry," he managed, dragging his lips into a smile even though his teeth were trying to knock together. "I'm okay, Cas. It's nothing. And—for before, too. Sorry," he said again, hating the repeated word the second it came out of his mouth. But he couldn't think of anything else to say, like his brain was stuck on one track, playing over and over as he stared into piercing blue eyes. "I'm sorry I flipped out. I just couldn't…I don't know. My mind was all over the place, and…"

Sam trailed off, not sure anymore what he was trying to say. For a long moment, Castiel didn't say anything either, just watched him without moving, listening to the mess that was Sam's brain tumble out of his mouth and disappear into the cavernous darkness without so much as an echo. Then the angel leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Sam's, unbelievably softly, like he was worried the slightest pressure would break him. Sam wasn't sure he was wrong.

"There is no reason to apologize, Sam." Castiel's voice was barely a whisper. Sam felt it more than he heard it, the warmth of the angel's breath brushing his lips with every word. Castiel's hands relaxed around his wrists, but Sam didn't try to move, didn't even want to anymore. He leaned into Castiel and closed his eyes, feeling just the tips of their noses touching as Castiel released a soft exhale. "I was concerned you'd been harmed. You are very important to me."

"You too," Sam said, though his throat felt like it was closing over and he could hardly get the words out.

There was another word, a more important word that he was supposed to be saying, bouncing around in his head, but he couldn't get it onto his tongue, couldn't make himself say anything that really mattered, not even when he was so close that he probably could have said it all if he'd just leaned forward an inch and a half. Sam opened his eyes for a second, just long enough to see that Castiel's were still open, that overwhelming tide of blue sending him spinning into a thousand other thoughts—Cas's hand in his at the skating rink, Cas brushing a snowflake from his cheek under the glow of Christmas lights, an alternate universe where Marilyn was hot and Dean had never called, that day in the laundry room, and he and Cas had just stood there forever with the Christmas CDs turning over and over in the background until one or the other of them figured out how to close that gap, such a small and stupid and complicated distance. Sam squeezed his eyes shut again and breathed through his nose and waited for something, anything, to push them over that edge. But all he heard was the crunch of Dean's footsteps growing closer again, and then his brother's voice echoing through the ink-black emptiness as Castiel pulled back and twisted to search for the flashlight beam.

"Hey, Cas! Think I found what we're looking for. You guys wanna check this out?"

Castiel turned back and stared at Sam, like he was waiting for him to make a decision. But the decision had already been made for them, maybe a long time ago, and Sam just gave him a half smile, tugging gently at the hands still bound by Castiel's fingers. This time the angel let him go.

Dean was halfway to the other side of the church. When Sam and Castiel finally reached him, following the flitting beam of a flashlight and walking nearly bent in half to duck the low ceiling, Dean was standing over a pit with his arms crossed, tapping one foot into the dirt. He looked amazingly pleased with himself and incredibly pissed at the same time, which was a special Dean talent, Sam had realized after twenty-four years of his almost constant company. Dean swept the beam of his flashlight dramatically over the pit.

"No reason to come by, right, Cas? No clues here. An angel already took care of it. Well, whatever else you bastards are doing upstairs, I hope you're not in charge of air traffic control, because you people suck at crossing the t's."

Sam shot his brother a look for the angel bashing, an activity Dean never seemed to get tired of. But when he glanced down into the pit, he decided he couldn't really say anything—because there were the depressions left by the bells, twelve perfect holes laid out side by side in the earth, but lying right next to them was a skeleton, the bones bleached white from a hundred years undisturbed. Castiel just tipped his head slightly, considering the skeleton as if trying to decide what relation it might bear to the bells. Dean snorted and zeroed the beam of his flashlight on the skull half buried in the ground.

"Bones, Cas. A body, definitely not one that just fell in here through the nonexistent hole in the stone floor up top—lying right next to the major evil bells that are infected with all kinds of demon mojo. And your angel buddy didn't even think to mention that?"

Castiel just stared back at Dean through narrowed eyes, like the hunter was speaking some language in which he was only conversationally fluent. "The bones were not in the dream of the prophet," he answered shortly after a long moment of silence. "The angel probably deemed them unimportant."

"Unimportant?" Dean scoffed. He glanced once at Sam and then shook his head. "Wow. You people are lemmings. Stupid lemmings—lemmings on the Twinkie defense." Castiel opened his mouth like he was going to say something, or more likely ask something about the pop culture references Dean just couldn't stop himself from bringing to the conversation—but Dean didn't give him a chance, raising one hand to stop that before it started. "You know what, never mind. Doesn't matter. All I want to know is, can I salt and burn Crusty here? That would help with the negative energy crap, right?"

Dean was already fiddling with his pockets, pulling his silver lighter out of one and a canvas bag of salt from the other. Sam hadn't brought anything from the car except his small Maglite, and he wondered suddenly if Dean was right, at least in part, and living at the Gerbers' was making him soft, since he'd walked into a haunted, malevolent church with all the preparation of someone entering a corn maze. But Castiel was shaking his head and sinking to one knee in the dirt, reaching out with his left hand to brush the skeleton's delicate finger bones.

"No, it wouldn't," he answered belatedly. When he looked up at the Winchesters, his expression seemed distracted, like his mind was in two places at once. "These bones belong to a very pious soul. There is very little of her essence left now, but what remains is holy, entirely without demonic taint. If her spirit was buried with the bells, it could only have helped to hold the demon at bay."

"Great," Dean griped, his hands slapping down against his jeans. "So all this work, and you're telling me it's the Holy Ghost buried under this church?"

Any other time, Sam would have shot his brother a look, both for his irreverence and for willfully using terms that were just going to confuse their resident angel. But something in the hole had caught his attention, something glittering brighter than bone in the glow of Dean's flashlight. Looking closer, Sam thought it might be a necklace chain, from the way it was knotted into the bones of the spine. He couldn't see anything like a pendant, but there was a good chance it was farther down. Being careful not to go too fast, because there was a knot on the back of his head and the last thing Sam needed right now was to lose his balance and crush the bones of a saint, the tall hunter got on his knees next to Castiel and reached out over the bones, digging the necklace chain carefully out of the soil. Castiel watched him for only a moment before his eyes lifted back to Dean.

"There is something else," the angel was saying as Sam finally found the clasp. It took a few tries to unhook the ancient box clasp, but when he got it undone he slipped both sides of the chain gently away from the skeleton's neck, brushing dirt from the silver links as he drew it out. The end of the necklace was still buried in the earth between the ribs; Sam dug for it with the tip of one finger, cautious not to disturb the bones themselves. Castiel shifted next to him and then pressed on. "I told you that the bells were not moved by angels or demons, but by human hands. I believe these were the hands that accomplished that, perhaps because the church could no longer contain them."

"Wait a minute," Dean broke in, and Sam didn't have to look up to imagine the indignant expression on his brother's face. "So when you said _human_ hands, you really meant ghost hands? Because if you think that's the same thing, we're gonna have to put you through Supernatural 101, Cas. I mean the basic version, for the special kids."

"They were moved by a human soul," Castiel returned, sounding annoyed. "There is very little difference as far as angels are concerned." Sam could feel something under his fingertip now—cold metal, icy from a century in the ground. He pulled it out slowly, one link of chain at a time as Castiel continued. "But there is more. An especially pious soul like this one, almost at the level of sainthood, would be one of the few that could influence the dreams of a prophet of the Lord. I believe it was this person who gave the dream of the bells to Rachel Loughton."

Sam had the necklace in his hands now. The weight at the end wasn't a pendant at all; it was a locket, soft silver like the chain and decorated with swirls of flowering vines, and free of tarnish just like the bells. Sam tried to wedge his fingernail into the dirt-encrusted gap where the clasp would be.

"Wait a minute," Dean sputtered. "So this was the guide? The old-timey nun? This is Mary-Margaret Constance?"

"Not Mary-Margaret," Sam said. The locket was open in his palm now, and he turned to show it to Castiel, then held it up for Dean, tilting the necklace so that the words inscribed inside the locket would catch the light. "There's a different name in here. Dolores Underwood."

Sam had never liked the moment in adventure movies when the hero had found whatever he was looking for in a cave of improbable wonders and the ceiling started to shake. He liked it even less when it was actually happening to him, the earth trembling under his knees and the stone of the church's foundation groaning overhead. He lost his balance and swung out wildly with his empty hand, only to find himself caught by a solid arm around his waist, Castiel's fingers clenching into his jacket. Dean looked down at him and gave a disappointed shake of his head.

"Seriously, Sam? You just had to go and piss them off again, didn't you?"

"We should leave," Castiel announced, his gravel voice pitched low with anxiety for the first time in Sam's memory. He was only too happy to let the angel help him to his feet and then head for the slope of the fallen wall at top speed, the locket clenched in his fist, only pausing to make sure there were two sets of footsteps running behind him.

Climbing up was about as easy as going down had been. The locket burned on the raw skin of Sam's palm, but there was no time to shove it in a pocket, so he just gritted his teeth and held it tighter, using his other hand to fish for handholds. He was pulling himself up into the nave of the church when the stone floor gave a sudden lurch and Sam lost his balance, and probably would have tumbled straight back down if it weren't for the inhumanly strong hand that gripped the back of his coat and heaved him up onto the threadbare carpet of the long stone aisles. Dean was already out of the hole and running for the door, and he yelled at Sam to get his ass in gear as Castiel emerged from the cavern in the floor and stood uncertainly over Sam, waiting for him to get up. But for an endless moment Sam stayed where he was, blinking at the pain in his side and trying to make his eyes understand what he'd seen in the instant before he hit the floor and the ache in his hip distracted him.

Because everything in the church was broken, but nothing was out of place, not the empty pews or the altar or the crucifix in the apse, except for one thing—one beautifully painted red and gold donation box that should have been in the transept by all the votive candles but was lying under a pew on the other side of the church instead, right under the wall of stained glass windows. Because the box was covered in dust, but dust in all the wrong places, like it had been moved, and the closer he looked the more Sam realized what bad shape the box was in, its sides strained like they'd been hammered at, its tiny padlock almost broken. Because he had felt something tug him, in the moments before he almost slid back down the hole, and it hadn't felt the same as what had pushed him down in the first place—it had been a pricking in his side, like pins and needles, like something in his pocket buzzing red hot against his skin. Because his side ached but it wasn't the side he had landed on, and the box looked like something had been hammering at it from the inside, trying to get out…

In an instant Sam was up and running through the pews, jumping splintered benches and the stones from the wall that were scattered like land mines along each row as he shoved the necklace into his pocket. Dean was shouting at him, and he thought Castiel was running after him, but he had a feeling that if the angel caught him he'd drag Sam out of the church whether there was a bell inside or not, and he couldn't take that chance. He leapt the last pew and landed in the aisle beneath the stained-glass windows, dropping to his knees and fishing under the wooden bench for the box. He sent a silent plea for forgiveness at the shaking wooden rafters above him, but there just wasn't time to think of anything else—he slammed the painted box against the curved finial of the pew and felt the ancient wood splinter under his hands. The whole foundation groaned, every single thing in the church enraged as a small golden bell flew from the red and gold wreckage and rolled across the carpet. Sam reached out to grab it.

He didn't remember the blue glass bottle until it was too late. His hand was already around the bell before he remembered the crooked curve of glass at the pottery store trying to dig itself deeper into his wrist the second the bell was removed from the crosses that had been holding it at bay. A great crack like thawing ice split the air of the church as he touched the leather strap. Then the stained-glass windows above him burst into a thousand pieces and plummeted toward him, the razor-sharp edge of every shard already blood red in the setting sun. Sam toppled onto his back and threw an arm over his eyes.

But the pain he was waiting for never came. Sam held his breath for a few long moments, and then he lifted his arm slowly from his face, blinking the spots away from his eyes. Castiel was hovering over him, his knees digging into the carpet on either side of Sam's legs, one hand braced on the floor next to his head, his fingers caught in the messy strands of Sam's hair. He was backlit by the sunset, and Sam couldn't decipher the expression on his face, any of it except the striking blue eyes staring down into his.

At first Sam couldn't put the scene together in his mind—couldn't understand how Castiel had protected him when the other man was so much shorter, couldn't understand why it looked like the fragments of stained glass were still hanging above them, frozen in the empty air. Then something moved on the floor beside him and Sam's mouth fell open, his mind suddenly blank of everything except wonder—because stretching out around him were the shadows of tremendous wings, every feather outlined in stark silhouette by the scarlet sunset light. Sam stared at the flickering shadows and then up into Cas's waiting eyes, and for a moment he couldn't breathe, because an angel, the angel _Castiel_ , God's dazzling angel with incredibly soft hands, was kneeling above him with his wings extended, guarding him from a storm of broken glass—then the shadows of the wings tightened and snapped, like Castiel was throwing them back, and Sam's heart skipped as all the glass shards cascaded down into the pews, a rain of brilliant red and orange ending in a thousand tiny crashes. Castiel tightened his fingers into Sam's hair, and Sam tried to picture what the wings looked like sprouting from his back—great arcs of white feathers that would be so red, in the sunset, they'd look like they were burning.

"Cas," he breathed. The angel tipped his head.

"I was calling you," he said, as mildly as if Sam hadn't answered his cell phone.

Sam's chest buckled in a laugh, and he looked up at Castiel with a smile stretching across his lips, admitting to himself that if he hadn't been in love with Castiel already, he probably would be now. Then there were footsteps on the stone floor behind him, and the shadows of Castiel's wings disappeared, the angel rolling up and off of him as Dean rounded the corner of the pews.

"Sam!" he growled, worry and anger sharpening his bright green eyes as he hauled Sam into a sitting position. "Swear to God, some days it's like you're trying to end up behind the veil! The fuck were you doing over here while the church from Hell tried to make you into moose filets?"

Sam took a deep breath and scooted back to lean against the wall of the church, the smile lingering on his lips even as he looked up at Dean, whose expression said he was going to pay now, then race home and get checked over, and then he was going to pay again later. The younger Winchester lifted his right hand to expose the small golden bell nestled in his palm.

"Got one," he said, because that seemed like enough.

Dean balked. Castiel reached out to take the bell from his hand, and for the second their fingers brushed all the radiance of enormous wings exploded into Sam's mind again, shadows and light and those sharp blue eyes staring down into his. Then Dean extended one leg and kicked Castiel in the knee, drawing two startled gazes up to him as he leaned back on his heels.

"Told you," Dean said, looking pointedly at the angel. "Featherbrained _asshats_."

Sam decided if they made it to the car alive, he'd get Dean back for that later.

.x.

The snow had started falling shortly after they had returned to the Gerbers' house. The day itself had been clear, almost warm, but the clouds had rolled in swiftly once the sun dropped behind the mountains, and the snow was coming down heavily now, large, thick flakes that brushed against the kitchen window where Castiel stood, looking out into the darkness of the backyard. The angel tipped his head back to take in a view of the sky, a seethe of dense clouds glowing red from the reflected lights of the city. He knew enough about weather to wonder if the storm was natural, or if this was something else, the world trying to bury something malicious and twisted under the smothering weight of brilliant snow. Perhaps humans were not the only ones attempting to light candles against the darkness.

The sound of the shower turning on down the hall and the clack of computer keys behind him turned Castiel from the window, his gaze shifting from the thin lines of his reflection to the well-lit living room. Sam was seated on the long arm of the couch, his computer on his lap and his fingers flying over the keys. His hair was still damp from the shower he had taken as soon as they'd arrived, and dark strands clung to his neck, a few drops sliding down into the collar of the black t-shirt with the strange yellow bird that Sam had been wearing at night ever since he had taken Castiel shopping. The angel had been forced to change, too, as his suit and coat were soiled from their excursion beneath the ruined church; he had found a blue turtleneck among the new clothes yet unused, and a pair of dark pants, and his usual clothes had been set aside for another trip to the dry cleaner's. Castiel found it difficult to focus on his discomfort with his attire, though, because his eyes had caught on the white bandages wrapped around the palms of both of Sam's hands, the soft cloth glowing in the light of the computer screen.

The sealing box on the floor beside the dining room table held eight bells now, two-thirds of the twelve depressions already filled. But with every advance they made, the situation was growing more dangerous, and Castiel could not seem to prevent the darkness from reaching out for Sam Winchester, every encounter leaving him with new scars. He wondered what the cost of this mission would be, before the end.

A sigh from the figure on the couch distracted Castiel from his thoughts. Sam was stretching above his head, his gaze flickering across the screen of his laptop—then he snapped the computer closed and set it carefully on the table beside the couch, glancing up at Castiel with a smile.

"Well, that's it—I emailed Bobby about everything we've found so far, the church, the bones—all of it. Maybe he'll be able to dig up something about Dolores Underwood." The silver locket from the grave was lying on the table, and one of Sam's hands strayed out to touch it, the metal blushing red for a moment with the reflection of his fingers. When he looked up again, his eyes were thoughtful, more green than brown for once in the glow of the Christmas tree. "You said the soul attached to those bones was holy—almost a saint. That doesn't sound like someone who'd get trapped here like a vengeful spirit. Why didn't she pass on after she died?"

"I do not know that," Castiel told him. He moved across the room until he was standing beside the table, and then slowly he lowered himself onto the edge of the couch next to Sam, his gaze lingering on the locket. "But there was very little of her spirit left in that place. Whatever strength she carried as the remnant of a human soul, it is nearly gone now."

"She wore herself out moving the bells," Sam murmured as he traced one finger down the curl of the silver chain. "Trying to find safe places to leave them, where the demonic energy would be dampened." His lips twitched up in a half smile, but it fell away a moment later as his eyes fixed on the locket. "She probably wasn't strong enough to move the last two."

Castiel wondered how Sam could know so much about a woman he had never met, who had been dead so long before he had ever lived. Perhaps it was just the sympathy of one faithful soul recognizing another. He chose not to question it. His attention had drifted back to the bandages on Sam's hands—Sam was spinning the locket idly with the tip of one finger, and the bandages clenched tight across the back of his knuckles, the cuff of his long-sleeve t-shirt pushed up just far enough that Castiel could see the stitches piercing his wrist. The angel pressed his lips together. The bells were breaking Sam, one fragment at a time. Even his wings hadn't been enough to bring Sam back without fresh wounds. He was starting to wonder what would be.

"Cas?"

Castiel pulled his gaze up from the jagged stitches to find that Sam was watching him, a wrinkle of confusion settling above his eyes. Sam tried another small smile, as fleeting as the one before.

"Hey. What's up? You look a little…" Sam broke off without finishing the sentence, his hand leaving the locket to brush a curl of wet hair away from his neck. Castiel watched it slip back into his lap. Then he reached out and took hold of both of Sam's wrists, as gently as he could, and pulled them toward him until both bandaged palms lay face up in front of him, each of Sam's hands resting in the cradle of his own. He pressed his thumbs softly to the radial bones of each wrist and felt Sam's heartbeat whispering against his skin.

"Are you all right, Sam?" he asked, his voice low as the sound of the shower dropped off, leaving the rest of the house in silence. The tips of Sam's fingers twitched in his hands.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Sam returned, just as softly. Castiel looked up at him and Sam tipped his head to one side, the motion driving a droplet of water down the curve of his neck. "Your wings," he said, worry pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. "Did they get hurt? By the glass?"

Castiel shook his head. "No. They are not physical entities. Such corporeal things could never damage them."

He wondered abruptly if that had been the wrong thing to say, if Sam would be somehow offended by his dismissal of the physical plane. But Sam only sighed, his shoulders relaxing as some tension Castiel had not realized the other man was holding onto slipped away. His next smile stayed on his face.

"That's good. I was worried that maybe…" Sam interrupted himself once more and looked down at their hands, still pressed together, the bandages even whiter than Castiel's eternally pale skin. For a moment the angel thought Sam might pull his hands away, and his thumbs tightened imperceptibly against his companion's wrists—but Sam left them where they were, and when he looked up again his eyes were curious, the flecks of hazel shining brighter beside the reflection of Christmas tree lights. "I'm not trying to offend you or anything—I mean, I am so thankful, and you don't have to answer this if you don't want to, but…if they're not, you know, physical things…how did they stop the glass?"

Castiel felt a thoughtful frown pull at his lips. "I'm not certain," he admitted.

He hadn't been thinking about it, in that moment, the impossible collision of corporeal and incorporeal things—he had only been thinking about Sam, his eyes wide under the flicker of oncoming glass, a rain of orange and blood red crashing toward him, and the flash of black stitches as Sam threw his arm up to shield his face. The certainty that he could never let glass do that to Sam again. Castiel didn't remember the feeling of the glass fragments resting, for an instant, on his manifested wings—just the feeling of Sam's hair between his fingers as those hazel eyes stared up into his, telling him something Castiel didn't know how to understand. The angel looked down at Sam's bandaged hands again and wondered if Sam's mind had turned to the same matter as his. If his wings could become physical to hold back a shower of broken glass, there was a chance he could manifest them again, to hold something else.

For a minute, neither of them spoke, the distant rustle of the furnace coming on the only sound in the house. Then Sam turned his hands over in Castiel's, so that they were palm to palm, and squeezed gently, his long fingers wrapping around the angel's thumbs.

"Well—whatever happened, you saved me, Cas." Castiel looked up into Sam's eyes and found him smiling, just a soft curve of his lips as he squeezed his hands again. "I can't thank you enough for that."

Castiel did not need to be thanked. Because he had realized all of a sudden that this was what angels were supposed to do, what he had been given those wings for an eternity ago. They were to save Sam Winchester. Sam brushed his fingertips over his wrists and Castiel glanced down at the other man's hands. They were larger than his own, and covered them almost completely, callused where his had never had time to become anything other than soft—but as he watched the movement of Sam's bones under the bandage, each one rising in turn like a piano string, he wondered if there was anything he would not do anymore to protect those fragile hands.

.x.

Sam was already zonked out on the couch by the time Dean got out of the shower. Dean was a little annoyed by that—he'd had a few more questions for his brother about whatever had gone on at the church, most of them starting with _what_ and ending with _the fuck_ —but when he got a glimpse of Sam drooling into a pile of happy snowman pillows with raccoon eyes like the snowmen had whaled on him for an hour first, Dean generously decided the third degree could wait until morning. Sam hadn't come off so bad in the end, just some scrapes on his hand and whatever, but still, some rest would do him good. Cas was nowhere in sight, which was weird because as far as Dean could tell his socially busted guardian angel had made it his personal mission to watch Sam sleep every single night since they'd come to the Gerbers'—and now that he'd thought it, that was even weirder, and Dean resolved to find Castiel and punch him in the face, or at least make sure that creepy bastard wasn't peering in the neighbors' windows.

Plus, he needed to give Joshua's room another ransack. No way was this the only fourteen-year-old boy in America without a secret porn stash.

Cas was peering _out_ , actually. He was standing ramrod straight in the family room, next to the air hockey table where Dean had kicked Sam and Castiel's asses four times, separately _and_ together, because Sam was a gangly moose who couldn't handle a puck and Cas was a serious handicap even when he stood still. Dean would gladly have thrashed him one more time just for something to do, but Cas wasn't looking at the table—he was staring out the window instead, watching the snowstorm. Dean stepped up behind him and craned his neck to judge the snowfall, and then he grimaced, his reflection making the same face in the glass.

"Crap. It's still coming down? That's gonna suck tomorrow."

Castiel shot him a look through the window, sort of an abbreviated version of Sam's bitchface. "I enjoy the snow," the angel said, probably just to be contrary. Dean rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, well—it's all fine for you, isn't it? You can just flap off and do whatever you want. For people, snow is frickin' messy, man. All that slush and ice and plowing…"

Dean frowned as he caught a glimpse of the front steps. The walk was already icing-deep in white flakes, the whole thing coming down like nuclear fallout over the glowing robotic lawn deer. The Gerbers had cleared the walk and the driveway before they left for Hawaii, but all that hard work was going to be kaput tomorrow, and there was no way Dean was going to be caught dead with a snow shovel in his hands. That left Sam—and it wasn't like he'd never stuck Sam with his chores before—enjoyed it, honestly, tried to make a habit of it—but remembering the figure upstairs on the couch, bone tired and clocked out at ten p.m., that felt like a dick move even to Dean. Then a brilliant idea hit him like a brick to the face, and Dean lit up, throwing an arm around Castiel's shoulders.

"Hey, Cas. Sam's pretty beat, right? You wanna do something for him tomorrow—something that'd _really_ take a load off his mind? Let me show you this thing in the garage…"

Castiel looked confused, but he was more gullible than guarded any day of the week. Dean fought down a grin as he led Cas down the hall. Because hey—what was the point of feeding, clothing, and carefully not strangling a thirty-something angel-bot in a wrinkled trench coat if you couldn't get something out of it once in a while? That snow wasn't going to shovel itself.


	15. December 14

**December 14**

Sam rubbed a hand through his hair as he made his way absently toward the kitchen. He shook his head, blinking the sleep from his eyes and navigating around the low coffee table. He was wearing the Christmas pajamas that he had bought with Cas and had on a pair of white socks with different-colored blue snowflakes—which, he noted, arching an eyebrow at the many snowmen smiling back at him from ornaments and pillows and snowglobes, matched the Gerbers' decor perfectly.

He stared down at his feet, shivering a little in the cold of the morning and glancing back at the warm blankets that still lay invitingly on the couch. He had slept unexpectedly soundly the night before. He pinched the bridge of his nose, recalling the remnant of a nightmare, some shadow of teeth in the darkness, but it had been chased away by light. Sam let his hand slide down to his side, glancing around with some confusion.

Almost every morning when he woke up, Castiel had been there, sometimes paging through one of the stack of books Sam had brought down from the Gerbers' library, sometimes at the window, staring through the thick glass—but he had always been close.

Sam peered into the kitchen, feeling the cold of the tile floor seeping through his socks. The sun was streaming through the window, but not high enough yet to reach the crystal star, and everything was cold and untouched since Sam had left it the night before. The hunter shifted from foot to foot before leaving the kitchen with a frown, realizing that if Castiel had gone, he had no idea where to even start looking.

The tall hunter moved quickly back toward the stairs, intending to go down and grab his coat, when he caught sight of a familiar figure. Cas's trench coat was stained with the dirt from underneath the church, but he had it on anyway, and he was standing right next to the door, his eyes fixed on some point beyond the glass panel. Sam slowed his steps, grabbing onto the railing and heading down to the front entryway.

"Cas, what are you doing?" he asked, walking up to stand beside the angel. He tried to look out the rectangular window beside the heavy door, but all he could see was the swirling white snow still coming down. Castiel's eyes flickered to him in brief acknowledgement of his presence before focusing outside again.

"I am watching the snow accumulate," he said in a flat voice. Sam felt an unexpected smile darting across his face, along with a little laugh.

"Did you just make a joke, Cas?" the hunter asked. It wasn't quite right, like so many of the things that Cas tried to emulate, but the thought made Sam want to keep smiling. The angel's face, though, when he turned to look at the hunter, was the perfect picture of confusion.

"It is not a joke, Sam." Castiel frowned down at his knuckles. "I am watching the snow fall in order to determine when I should next go out and shovel the walk."

Sam's eyebrows drew together and he moved closer to the angel, wiping a hand across the little window to clear it and squinting out into the blizzard. Beyond the lawn ornaments and the piles of snow he could just make out the space cut by the shovel above the sidewalk.

"What did you…why did you…?" Sam trailed off, gesturing helplessly at the freezing snow outside. A shiver ran down his spine just standing so close to the cold glass.

"Did I calculate the area incorrectly?" Castiel asked; his eyes flickered once to the work he had done then settled on Sam. "Perhaps I should have also cleared the driveway? Dean was unclear."

Sam felt like running his hand through his hair, and maybe pulling some out. Dean—of course this had something to do with Dean. He should have suspected from the moment he realized the angel had been doing chores. Sam couldn't count the number of times in his childhood he had been duped into shoveling and doing dishes and laundry, and any number of things—but never during a blizzard. That was a new low.

"Oh, Cas," Sam said. The words came out more as a sigh, and he reached forward to lay a hand on the angel's shoulder. When his fingers touched the material, he almost flinched back in surprise. The fabric was wet and cold. Cas had probably taken the snow shovel out in just the trench coat and worked right through the freezing gusts. Now that Sam had noticed, he could see the wet stain at the hem of the coat and the dusky-gray tinge to the angel's hands.

"Did I do something wrong, Sam?" Castiel asked, looking somewhat distressed by the thought. Sam hastened to shake his head.

"No, not at all Cas, not you—Dean did." Sam shot a look back up the stairs, trying to burn a hole through the drywall into the master bedroom. His cold fingers brought him back, and he pulled them away from the wet coat, burying them into the fabric of his shirt. "You're so cold," he said quietly. There was a smile playing at the edges of his lips, but mostly he was looking at the flecks of snow and water and thinking about the feel of ice.

"I don't get…" the angel began, and Sam could already hear the rest of the protest—that Castiel didn't get cold, so he didn't need warmth, didn't need food, didn't need anything human at all. The angel trailed off partway and a long pause hung in the air before he fixed Sam with a soft look. "You don't have to worry about me, Sam," he finished instead.

The tall hunter bit his lip, reaching out to brush snowflakes from the angel's hair. He paused with his fingertips at the border of the black strands, staring into Cas's blue eyes sparkling with the white snowfall behind him. He could feel heat suddenly rising from the floor as the vents came on. He smiled, glancing down to where the warm air was rushing from the metal slats set in the floor, an idea taking him.

"I don't have worry," Sam told the angel, "because I can fix it."

He reached down, slowly lifting one of Castiel's hands between his. He rubbed the cold skin between his bandaged hands for a moment, chafing gently to bring the warmth back—then Sam lifted the hand slowly, watching the angel's reaction. Cas's lips were still, his expression open, waiting. Sam brought the hand up to his lips and began blowing on it softly. The angel never shivered, but Sam could feel the tiny movement of the fingers under his, the warmth returning. He lifted the other hand next.

"See Cas," the hunter explained slowly, looking past the angel to the whiteout beyond the window, "when it's really cold and the weather is bad like this, no one really goes outside—a lot of places don't even open."

A fleeting frown marred the angel's forehead and he glanced sharply at Sam at the last. "Will the dry cleaner's not open, Sam?" he asked, sounding a little put out.

Sam bit his lip, letting the angel's hand slide away. As a rule, he didn't believe in lying to Castiel, or manipulating him, but he thought maybe he could be forgiven just this once. The tall hunter shook his head, adopting a grave expression.

"I don't think the dry cleaner will be open," he told the angel. "And in fact, since we're going to be in all day and we don't want you to run out of clothes, maybe you should put the pajamas on." Sam held his breath, resisting the urge to straighten nonexistent wrinkles from the fabric of his Woodstock shirt.

Cas was still for a moment, considering, but then he nodded as though accepting sage advice. Sam felt a tiny stab of guilt, but it was washed away by another feeling as Castiel headed for Harold Gerber's office, where they had settled on keeping his things after Dean had come out to find him changing clothes right next to Sam's sleeping form and flipped out almost as badly as the raccoon that had rampaged through the living room.

Castiel headed up the stairs, and after watching him disappear around the corner Sam headed into the kitchen again. He'd had some vague thoughts of coffee, resisting the siren song of the couch blankets a second time, but stopped dead in the doorway at the sight of his brother.

Dean was in a pair of boxers that said _big dog_ across them and were decorated with bones, but also had on a black sweatshirt. His hair stood up at all angles and he yawned widely, bent halfway down to lie against the counter and stare directly into the glow of the spinning microwave, his red toenails tapping against the tiles as he dragged them across the floor.

"You're up early," Sam said. Dean didn't even lift his head to acknowledge his brother, his eyes tracing something as it went round and round. He made a groaning sound, though.

"Yeah, well, I think the douche outside with the snow shovel was actually scraping my window—or maybe the side of my head," Dean whined. He turned to lay his cheek flat against the counter and stare dolefully at Sam, who had no sympathy whatever.

"Makes you wonder why he was out there, huh?" he said, pursing his lips and folding his arms across his chest. Dean scraped himself off the counter with another Neanderthal-ish grunt.

"It is too fucking early for bitchface, Sam," he protested, turning and fishing out a paper plate with a deliriously happy snow family on it. The microwave beeped twice, and Dean tugged at the plastic door with more force than was strictly necessary. "Besides, if I'd known that pain-in-the-ass was going to _scraaaaaaaaape, scraaaaaaaaaape, scraaaaaaaape_ , right outside my window I would have left the shoveling to you." Dean reached into the microwave, pulling out a huge slab of chocolate kringle that had been sitting directly on the glass. He juggled it between his hands, dropping it quickly onto the plate and then sticking his burned fingers in his mouth. "See, I was just trying to spare you the work," Dean said around his digits.

Sam carefully resisted saying anything about karma, just shaking his head and letting his arms drop back to his sides. "I told Cas we were taking a snow day," he informed his brother.

Dean arched his eyebrows under his wild hair. "No effing kidding, man." His brother grabbed the plate and a pile of paper party napkins and started heading for the stairs. Sam blinked after him.

"You…uh…lost there, Dean?" he asked. "Master's bedroom's that way—TV's over there." He pointed his finger as he spoke. His brother just rolled his eyes and continued down the stairs.

"It's a snow day, Sammy," Dean called over his shoulder. "Gotta entertain myself somehow, and Joshua doesn't have any porn, but he does have a dope system and some game called _Grand Theft Auto_."

Sam scrunched his nose at the very un-Gerber-like game, walking to the railing at the top of the stairs to hear the rest of what his brother said.

"So, I'm off to kick some virtual ass—and maybe get some virtual ass, too. The girls in these games…"

Sam stepped away from the landing, purposefully tuning the rest out. He was glad Dean had found something that was going to make him happy, but like most of the things that made his brother happy, Sam _really_ didn't want to know the details.

Sam moved back to the kitchen, rubbing his socked feet together and regarding the coffee machine. He could still see bits of white coming down hard outside the window, and suddenly he was ridiculously grateful for the snow, and for the fact that his brother would probably be busy for the rest of the day stomping bitches and shooting up virtual liquor stores. And especially, he was grateful for the chance to be here with Cas in the matching pajamas that Dean would definitely have something to say about when he eventually emerged from the adolescent cave for food.

Sam bypassed the coffee machine, flicking on the stove and filling the Gerbers' dark blue kettle with water before nestling it on the brightening coils. He rubbed his arms, pulling a few items out of the cabinets, and then hurried over to the living room to turn on the gas fireplace. Dean thought it looked fake, and Sam agreed that it didn't look like the logs burning at Bobby's, but he still liked it. Sam turned on the news idly, thinking of the old hunter and the few years he'd spent beside that brick hearth, sometimes even falling asleep there on Christmas Eve only to wake magically in his bed in the morning.

Sam turned back toward the kitchen before he could lose himself in the memories to find Castiel standing awkwardly by the couch. His heart jumped into his throat—not because he hadn't heard the angel come, but because Castiel looked so different. All the sharpness was gone from his form, softened by the green plaid pants tied with such a precise bow it looked like it was store-fixed, instead of loose and sloppy like Sam's. The long-sleeved t-shirt made him look like he belonged in the Christmas-decorated house, and the figure of Snoopy looking out with his round black eyes made Cas's muzzed hair and confused look priceless. Sam loved it. He knew Cas was waiting for him to speak.

"It's perfect," Sam said, his voice catching a little in his throat, and even he wasn't sure whether he was talking about the shirt. The kettle whistled, and Sam jumped a little in surprise. Cas trailed him to the kitchen, where the hunter had already set out two ceramic mugs with snowmen dancing on the sides and tucked two white packages of hot chocolate inside them.

Sam pulled the kettle off of the stove, turning to the angel and shrugging a little with the pot. "I thought maybe we could have hot chocolate," he said, nibbling on his lips. Castiel nodded, reaching to slide the mugs closer to Sam.

"Because hot drinks are what humans do on cold days," Castiel said, matter-of-factly.

Sam felt a strange giddy feeling in his chest, a swarm of butterflies chasing out the usual doubts and insecurities that plagued him—because Cas remembered, even after all this time. The angel was studying one of the cups intently, regarding the huge white packet inside. After a moment, he held it out to Sam to pour the water. The hunter smiled widely, guiding the angel's hand back to the counter.

"That isn't a teabag, Cas," he explained, setting the kettle on a cool burner and pulling the other mug toward himself. "Hot chocolate is a little different." Rather than try to explain, Sam demonstrated, ripping the little packet open and pouring the brown dust into the bottom of the mug. Castiel observed him carefully and then did the same. The tall hunter poured the steaming water from the kettle into the cups, leaving just enough room for a splash of milk.

If he'd been making up a cup for his brother, he would have to have used two packages of chocolate and left room for a full fourth cup of marshmallows. Cas's spoon clinked harder against the sides of the cup than Sam's, and the hunter watched the swirl of color as the milk disappeared into the mugs, leaving only the curls of steam rising from the rims.

"I'll show you all the best things to do on cold days," Sam said, turning to the angel. The snowmen on the side of Sam's cup were warm under his fingers, and he couldn't help but feel the usual weight on his shoulders melting away like the snowflakes hitting the window behind them. For once there was only this moment—nothing mattered before or after. Castiel nodded, picking up his own mug carefully and following the tall hunter as Sam tugged his sleeve, leading him to the couch.

"Here," Sam said, setting his drink on the coffee table that had been pushed a few feet away since the couch was currently Sam's bed. Castiel did the same, sitting next to him. The angel had left about a foot of space between them, and Sam refused to think about what he was doing, to analyze it—he just scooted over until he was right next to the other man. Pulling the snowflake blanket from the edge, he spread it out until they were both covered. He could feel the cold still radiating from the angel's body, and so he moved closer, fisting one hand in the blanket and pulling it higher.

The news anchor was talking about politics and denominational controversies this holiday. Sam was barely listening. He pulled his feet closer to the edge of the couch, tucking them against Castiel's. The angel's feet were bare, but even through his Christmas socks they felt like ice to Sam. He was already right next to the angel, but Sam decided it wasn't enough.

"Sam…" Castiel said, unsure, and Sam could see the surprise on his face.

"Just trust me, Cas?" he asked. Then he smiled and pulled them both forward to sit on the floor with their knees up, backs pressed against the couch, the blanket draped over them. Sam tucked himself even closer to the angel, sliding his socked feet over Castiel's and wiggling his toes to create friction.

Usually whenever something like the news was on, Castiel stared at it, fascinated, or maybe just transfixed, Sam really couldn't tell—but when he looked, the angel was staring at him, as though he couldn't even hear the story about spontaneous caroling at the park. Sam's smile turned into a laugh at the expression, and he left his feet where they were, reaching forward to retrieve the mugs of cocoa from the table. He sipped at the hot drink, feeling the flickering warmth of the fire and the blanket and the body next to his, all filling him up. He let the news roll into some kind of morning talk show, not really caring about anything but staying where he was. Wrapped up together like they were, Cas felt like _Sam's_ angel.

The background noise of the TV and the warmth of the fire were making Sam drowsy. But mostly Castiel had settled an arm around Sam's shoulders, holding him close—and maybe Sam was as foolish as the snowman he had looked at in the coffee shop that first day, reaching for something that was meant to melt him, but Christmas was about dreaming. So he would let himself dream for just a little while that Cas was his angel, and that this love was not impossible. Sam's head had slipped down onto the angel's shoulder, and he felt the soft touch of fingers lifting the empty mug from the bandaged hand in his lap before the blanket was pulled tighter around him, and he drifted off.


	16. December 15

**December 15**

Sam's lips moved sometimes in his sleep. He never made a sound, and though Castiel had watched carefully he couldn't discern the shapes of any words in the fleeting movements, the soft opening and closing of his mouth around his shallow, even breaths. He had spent enough mornings at Sam's bedside now to decide that it was just a quirk of Sam's, like the wrinkle that crossed his brow when the daylight began to filter in or the leg he threw out at times to dangle over the edge of the couch, his socked toes just brushing the wooden floor of the living room. All the same, Castiel found himself drawn to this particular one, and in the hours between midnight and dawn he studied the movement of Sam's lips thoughtfully, wondering what secrets the young man was whispering to his dreams.

Morning was dim in the Gerbers' living room; the curtains were pulled across the windows, and outside the sky was overcast, glowing gray with the light of the distant sun. Only a few flakes were coming down now, but the front yard was blanketed by several feet of snow from the day before, with the lawn ornaments stranded under its silent weight. Only the tips of the light-up deer's antlers protruded from the snow. Dean had warned Castiel under the threat of undefined but apparently excruciating pain not to touch the Gerbers' bright orange snow shovel this morning, so the walk was coated in snow nearly as deep as the yard. Castiel was not sure Dean would be able to reverse the Impala out of the garage without clearing the driveway first; but Sam had voted that Dean be in charge of shoveling from now on, and Castiel had accepted that, not least because he suspected that the elder Winchester had been using him again.

A long, soft inhale pulled Castiel's eyes away from the snow, and he turned to regard the figure on the couch once more, his expression softening. Sam's hair lay like a disordered halo across his pillow, and the blue and white blanket had slipped down to pool around his waist, one foot in a white, snowflake-covered sock poking out from under the thick fleece. Sam's mouth was open slightly, though his lips were silent. Castiel felt himself smile. His face was still quiet, the sharp lines of awareness not yet marring his expression; all the same, the angel knew he was edging toward wakefulness, one low exhale at a time. Sam's breaths always sounded more like sighs in the moments before his eyes flickered open.

Through the tangle of arms meeting over his chest, Castiel caught a glimpse of the yellow bird decorating Sam's shirt; reflexively, he glanced down at his own clothing, considering the white and black dog from above. He had thought several times about changing back into something else, because it felt strange to be dressed in clothing that was so much thinner than what he normally wore, the suit and trench coat that felt, after all this time, not unlike armor across his shoulders—but in the end he had left the pajamas on, because several times he'd caught Sam smiling at the distorted dog on his chest, a smile that seemed to stretch from the corners of his lips as if Sam had no control over it, and he couldn't find anything wrong with his clothes that was worth watching that smile fade. Not even Dean briefly ascending from the basement and explaining in great detail how nauseating he found them before he slouched back downstairs with the rest of the kringle.

There was another sigh from the figure on the couch; without conscious thought Castiel stepped away from the window and moved to stand at the edge of low coffee table, watching Sam's lips shiver around every breath. He remembered the softness of that breath on his fingers as Sam lifted each hand in turn, massaging them between his own; remembered the quiet brush of it on his neck as Sam had leaned his head on the shoulder of his black shirt, slipping into a doze to the low murmur of the television. Castiel hadn't been sure what Sam needed, as the young man had folded into him one inch at a time, pressing against his side as if he could not get close enough. Castiel had set his arm around Sam's shoulders because it had seemed to be in the way, and then he had left it there, because Sam's body had relaxed beneath its weight, his socked toes moving lazily back and forth against the angel's. Castiel had liked the contact, the solidity of Sam's body nestled into his. And then he had wondered if he could feel the cold after all, because something vital had left him when Sam stood up and pulled away, and he had not felt quite warm enough since.

It took Castiel a moment to realize that hazel eyes were blinking heavily up at him from the couch, Sam's eyelids so heavy they nearly fell closed again every time they brushed his cheeks. "Cas?" he murmured, his voice rough from sleep. Then a slow smile crept across his lips, one Castiel had never seen before—sleepy and unguarded, and utterly sincere as he tipped his head sideways into the pillows, burying half his face in the soft white cloth. "Hey. Morning," Sam rasped, as his eyes blinked closed again.

Castiel said nothing. He was caught up in a revelation that only clarified as Sam lifted a hand to brush his hair out of his face, and then kept going, reaching over his head to stretch his long arms. He'd thought he had seen Sam awaken many times before, in nameless hotels with identical features, the tall hunter starting up in bed or blinking rapidly to spur himself to wakefulness, immediately swinging his legs over the side of his mattress—but that was just interruption, he realized, the suddenness of his presence forcing Sam to come awake all at once, already on alert. This was something else—the slow stirring, the heavy eyes, the drowsy smile as Sam tipped his head back in a stretch that drew his body into soft, ideal lines, reminding Castiel at a glance of all the beauty man could embody in the right context. Sam took a deep, slow breath and Castiel watched his lips part, coming back together in that same unguarded smile. This was the reward for being expected, for staying the night.

"Mm. I think I was dreaming about you," Sam said, edging up to rest against the back of the couch.

Castiel almost replied that he had been dreaming of Sam, too. He had no idea what it might have meant, as angels did not dream.

A shuffle on the stairs pulled Sam's gaze away. Dean's head appeared above the stair banister one tuft of hair at a time, until he was high enough to rest his cheek against the blond wood railing, his eyes squinted and bloodshot.

"Oh, man, Sammy," Dean groaned. "You gotta hide the Xbox. That game is fucking addictive."

"Dude, how late were you up?" Sam asked, pushing himself straighter on the couch. Dean shrugged.

"Maybe six. I couldn't get the helicopter to land on the hospital and blow the police blockade at the same time. Also, I'm starving. I think my stomach's eating my gall bladder. We gotta go out for breakfast like now."

Sam rolled his eyes as Dean went on, and the tall hunter turned back to smile at Castiel—but already it was a different smile, one the angel was used to, part indulgence and part apology, the smile Dean so often brought him. Castiel's eyebrows drew together. In an instant the older Winchester was at his elbow, pushing him toward the hall and ordering him to change, because he would not be seen at a respectable restaurant like Denny's with two grown men dressed for a six-year-old's sleepover—but Castiel barely heard him, and he started down the hall without even paying attention. He was busy looking at Sam, calculating how many days remained until Christmas, and how many more chances he had to catch that sleepy, unguarded smile.

.x.

Dean had been lukewarm on this whole bell thing from day one, but the longer this marathon Christmas stretched out, the worse the locations they went seemed to get. Going to bell-church central had briefly made the hunter feel the familiar rush of being on a job—life-or-death, fate-of-the-world stuff. But now everything was sugarplums, sickening pop versions of carols, and overstuffed penguins with red scarves that had magnets in their beaks that made them kiss.

And that had fascinated Cas, and Sam had explained why penguins were romantic even if they didn't really kiss in the wild, and Dean had started looking at the heavy bookends on a nearby shelf of the yuppie shop, wondering how much force it would take to smash the angel's skull, break Sam's jaw, and if he would still have enough energy left over to knock himself out.

They had spent the entire afternoon, until the sky was getting dark and clouds swarmed overhead, visiting every Christmas tree farm within the city limits, and Dean had to say he wasn't impressed. They were all the same in the end: lines of dead or dying trees shoved up against each other, the whole thing surrounded by a chain-link fence like the trees were going to try a jailbreak or something. This one was on the bigger side, and a lot more crowded, as evening had brought out the yuppies in droves; Dean had almost killed himself twice already trying not to trip over little kids.

So far the only part that reminded Dean of anything he'd ever seen on a farm was the matronly wife of the guy taking the cash, a biggish woman who was heavyset with a wide coat and a tall hat and wore her long hair in braided pigtails. And she wasn't in the right time of life to make that work. As far as Dean was concerned, pigtails were for children and strippers in schoolgirls costumes, and occasionally badass Vikings with horns on their helmets and last names like _the Destroyer_ and _the Iron-Axed Beheader._ So far, he hadn't been having the best luck with the older hippie crowd—from the antique store hag with the broom, to the Termineighbor, to the ancient piano teacher with the ears of a bat and the hearing of one, too, who had stopped a whole piano recital to frog-march him out the front door of some building called the Dairy Center for the Arts, which was apparently music-related.

Mrs. Christmas Tree Wife looked like something of a dairy center, and probably had like eight zillion grandkids. Her eyes were tracking Dean again, her lips pursed, one hand playing absently with the end of a braid, so the hunter moved on, ducking into the next line of bushy trees.

Castiel was standing there like a brain-scrambled alien, staring at one particular tree so intently Dean wondered if he were having a telepathic conversation of some sort, and/or tracing the particles back to when they were crapped out of some dinosaur's butt a millennia ago. That's what Dean pictured sometimes when Cas did his no-longer-on-your-plane-of-existence routine—big fat dinosaur piles, so big they could swallow one crappy angel, and that were probably integral to the start of this shitty world somehow.

The farmer's wife appeared at the end of the row, hands tucked down the front of the long pockets in her earthy green jacket. Her steps were slow and undirected, but Dean was a hunter, and no granny apple could nonchalant her way behind him without raising his hackles.

What was there, anyways, the hunter wondered deciding to avoid _Interview with a Spruce Tree_ and stepping past the vacant angel, some kind of hippie watchdog list he had made it onto? And if there was, why wasn't _suspecto numero uno_ the Gigantor and his creep-along companion?

"Sam!" Dean called, as he approached the front area with the smaller trees where he had last seen his little brother—though that term was relative. Especially amongst the tiny trees and tiny children, the Gigantor was pretty much Horton in Whoville. "Sammy," he called louder.

The sight that greeted him as he emerged from the last green row just made him shake his head. Some hugely pregnant woman with long brown hair and a baby bag over her shoulder was on her tiptoes, giving the tall hunter a friendly hug, which Sam returned with an awkward pat to the back of her puffy white coat.

"Thank you," she said, before releasing him and stepping over to the mom-mobile which looked freakishly like the Gerbers', climbing in next to a little girl and turning to check the seatbelts on two identical boys in the back, as well as the straps of a car seat that was probably not empty if the diaper bag was any indication. Women were out of their fucking minds. Dean had barely managed to take care of one little Sam, and Bobby said every gray hair on his head was the result taking care of them as children. Who the hell would keep going after four? Was she trying to fill out a band? A soccer team? Birth her own hippie movement?

"Merry Christmas!" Sam called, waving his hand as the woman drove off. He stepped away from the curb and Dean walked up to stand beside him.

"She going back to her shoe, then?" he asked. Sam jumped a little, turning to face his brother. His long hair shifted, falling into his face as he shook his head.

"Dean."

It was amazing how he managed to make the name into a greeting, and an admonishment, and a dismissal all at once—but that was Sammy to a T. He'd made his first bitchface at the age of one, and been honing it nearly daily ever since as far as Dean could tell.

"She seemed awfully friendly for someone who clearly spends so much time with her husband…" Dean said, shrugging into his leather jacket and lifting his eyebrows. Sam shot him a warning glance, looking pointedly at a little girl hugging a Christmas tree nearly twice as tall as her, though it still only came up to Sam's stomach. After a second, the tall hunter sighed, his mouth sliding into a smile.

"She was just grateful," he said. "I gave her kids all that Christmas candy we had to buy from the sweets shop—since you just had to have the enormous Jolly Jawbreaker, only free with purchases of twenty-five dollars or more."

Dean just grinned. No amount of belly-aching, bitch-fitting, or whining from Sam could ruin that jawbreaker—the thing was awesome. It was bigger than his fist—the whole thing wouldn't even fit in his mouth, and it had its practical side, too, given that as a jawbreaker, it could probably be swung hard enough to crack a skull. Just what was Sam going to do with the granola bar in his pocket? Gross somewhat out with grainy teeth?

"You can't piss on this parade," Dean warned his brother, reaching into his pocket. His fingers met the cool curve of the bell first, and he shivered involuntarily. Sam gave him a concerned look, but Dean just dug deeper, pulling out the enormous white candy ball flecked in Christmas red and green.

"You okay, Dean?" Sam asked.

Dean scoffed. "Yeah, I just got the fu…dging bell first instead of the jawbreaker."

Sam's eyebrow arched slightly as Dean caught himself on the word and a pair of little girls ran behind them into the cut forest of rows, jingling with bells on their shoes or in their hair or God knew where else—maybe these hippie people had just started to ring from between their ears. Then suddenly Sam's expression twitched into a deep frown.

"Wait, dude…you were keeping that jawbreaker in the same pocket as the bell?" he demanded.

Dean shrugged, swinging the huge, white marble back and forth in the plastic bag. "Sure, whatever." The hunter swung until the bag turned in a complete circle, but then jerked back, catching it in his other hand when Sam suddenly made a grab for it. "What the he…ham?" Dean groused, holding the jawbreaker close to his chest. "If you wanted one, you should have gotten your own."

Sam gave a long-suffering sigh with a superior expression as he looked down at Dean. "You can't put something in your mouth that has been sitting next to—and possibly absorbing—demonic energy all afternoon," Sam protested, crossing his arms in a way that meant he was digging in for a long lecture, or argument, or possibly a boring history lesson.

"Wanna bet?" Dean yanked the jawbreaker out of the bag, lifting it and shoving as much of it into his face as would fit. It was like trying to put his mouth around a tennis ball, and he kind of felt like he was either going to choke or maybe actually break his jaw, but it was all worth it for the scandalized, horrified expression on his brother's face.

"Dean!" Sam yelped.

_Paranoid much?_ Dean tried to tell his brother, but it came out around the huge obstruction more like, "Prrrrrrrrnid uuuuuuuuk?" Sam narrowed his eyes, but a second later a short woman was tapping on his shoulder—and this one actually had a baby in her arms wearing a Santa hat.

"Could you possibly help me get a tree on top of my car?" she asked with a hopeful expression. Sam opened and closed his mouth, glancing at his brother, but Dean had already taken the opportunity to back away. He could see Sam nodding anyway, like the sucker he was. Dean was happy to leave his brother to it. If Sam wanted to act like the Jolly Green Giant who made vegetables more friendly to children, then maybe he should be working at a hippie farm.

Didn't mean that Dean intended to stick around, though—Mrs. Farm-wife had caught up again, even with her slow steps, and though Cas had moved closer to the front of the lot, he was still apparently getting in touch with his inner Ent one chopped down pine at a time. Once more around the tree aisles and Dean was going to blow this Christmas twig stand for the kind of place where the only tree scent came from either a spray or an air freshener, and the only twinkling was the busted light in the John that fritzed on and off while a guy pissed.

He removed the huge piece of candy from his mouth before it permanently stretched his jaw, licking the thick candy taste from his lips and tongue as he put the treasure back into the plastic bag—and then after a moment of staring at what floppy hair he could see in the spaces between green branches, he shoved it back into the pocket with the bell.

The thought of a bar was calling Dean like a siren to some desperate sailor who hadn't gotten any in a month, so he cut down the middle path instead of making the whole circuit, stamping impatiently. At least they were in two cars, so if worse came to worst he could just sneak off. He was imagining the taste of some non-import, non-Christmas, non-Gerber alcohol when the sound of tires screeching against asphalt ripped through the tree lot.

Years and years of hunting and dealing with cops had Dean running toward the sound before his brain had even finished identifying it. His stomach clenched up into his heart, and it felt like he was trying to swallow the jawbreaker again.

The middle row afforded him a perfect view of the street, where Sam was standing a few feet from the sidewalk, rolling some kind of blue twine in his hands. His little brother had obviously heard the screech, because his upper body was flung away from something Dean couldn't see. Sam moved his long legs, attempting to get back onto the sidewalk, but his heavy shoe slipped on something Dean couldn't see in the street.

"Sam!" he yelled. He was still too far away to do anything but watch as Sam tumbled forward and the front end of a car appeared in the narrow scope of Dean's vision. The older hunter's hand stretched out in front of him involuntarily, his feet speeding up until he couldn't feel the heartbeat in his chest or the air in his lungs. Sam's wide, surprised eyes were lit by headlights, the high-beams spilling in a circle around his little brother, glinting off his silver zipper, his red scarf trailing into the slush of the street. For one suspended moment, Dean thought he could hear the crash coming—didn't know whether to squeeze his eyes shut or dive forward and pray for some kind of miracle.

The collision never came.

A familiar black-haired figure was suddenly there, wrapping his arms around Sam from behind and pulling him out of the street. The angel made it look effortless, lifting the slipping figure out of the way of the rushing vehicle that honked loudly as it passed. The pair fell to a seated position on the sidewalk, but Dean had the feeling, looking at his brother's shaking form and the stock-still shoulders of the angel, that it had been a controlled fall, for Sam's sake.

Dean's breath was back somehow, his heartbeat thundering in his ears, and he had never stopped running. The hunter threw himself to the ground beside his brother. Sam was slowly disengaging himself from the angel's hold, and he rose to his knees, giving Dean a sheepish smile.

"Guess I kind of lost my balance there…" he admitted, rubbing his hands against his arms.

Some of the terror that had been gathering in the pit of Dean's stomach dissipated, but it left him with too much adrenaline. He pulled his brother roughly to his feet, raking at the slush on his brother's scarf with stiff fingers. He wanted it off—any evidence of what had just happened, including that stupid expression on Sam's face.

"Fuck, Sam," Dean ground out, no longer caring about the profanity, or the trees, or any of this damn Christmas bell junk. Because saving the world at the cost of his brother was not an option—in fact, anything at the cost of Sam was not on the fucking table. Dean leaned closer, noticing with some irritation that Castiel had moved to his brother's elbow.

"Bell thing?" Dean asked under his breath, wiggling his fingers to pantomime. He hadn't felt anything himself, but he had also been half a fucking mile away and busy swallowing his insides, but Sam just shook his head.

Dean gave his brother and incredulous look, then fixed one on the pesky angel for good measure. Because if there wasn't a bell here, then that was just good old-fashioned Winchester luck, and somehow Dean had a feeling that could be even worse.


	17. December 16

**December 16**

Sam felt a stab of jealously course through him as he watched a black-haired man in a sports coat approach Castiel out of the corner of his eye. He had to admit that the angel looked sharp. He was wearing his black suit without the trench coat, and had traded up for a silk tie borrowed from Harold Gerber's closet. Sam had also rubbed some Crew through the angel's hair to give it a purposefully mussed look, fixing the strands with careful fingers. As a whole, the look was definitely working—maybe a little too well.

As December wore on, Sam was running out of Christmas locations to send them looking for bells, having exhausted most of the parks and hangouts by now. Dean, for his part, had started turning to bars, maybe fifty percent with work on mind. Sam didn't really have anything better to suggest, though. Mostly his brother had volunteered to visit all the holiday-themed bars and happy hours only too gladly—which was why Sam probably really should have suspected something when Dean handed him an address and asked if he and Cas could take one of the places.

Within moments of entering Nick's, Sam had figured out why Dean had skipped this one. There was a long bar at one end, separated from the door by tables of polished dark wood. The lights above the bar were hung with green garlands dotted with red flowers, and red and gold candles flickered on the tables. A huge Christmas tree filled up one corner, and the bartenders had matched their plain aprons with Santa hats. All this was to be expected of a place marked for bell searching and decked out for a special Christmas mixer. What Sam hadn't expected was the clientele.

Young men milled around, dancing in the corner by the tree; men in suits and tight jeans sat together at the tables, while others in velvet Santa hats and green and red shirts mingled around the floor. More than a few heads had turned at the pair Castiel and Sam cut as they entered. Sam had to square his shoulders to keep from running back out.

Dean had sent them to the local gay bar. Sam didn't really mind hanging at this kind of place, but he really could have used a warning.

Castiel had regularly managed to alienate enough women that Sam had taken extra effort to try to dress him to impress; but now, given where they'd wound up, it was kind of like he was dangling man meat. Sam himself had donned a red t-shirt and a soft white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and the collar left open, and then completed the costume with a headband that sported a pair of brown felt reindeer horns with little silver jingle bells at their ends. Mostly he had dressed them expecting that any bar Dean refused to go to was a probably a hippie college joint with a bunch of young folk. Now Castiel was collecting phone numbers. Sam had always only ever seemed to attract a sort of fringe element, which was mostly nothing to brag about; the reindeer horns were not helping, and his own creep watch was at two and counting within minutes of walking into the place.

The bartender gave Sam a friendly smile over his red beard, handing over two drinks, which were apparently called Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeers. Sam accepted the tall, clear glasses, scrutinizing the bright red liquid inside with some concern. There was definitely rum, and cranberry juice, and grenadine…and he wasn't sure he even wanted to know what else. Sam really didn't intend to get dunk, but he knew that having an empty hand in a bar was the best way to get offered a drink.

The tall hunter nodded his thanks to the bartender, turning away and trying to make his way back to Cas through the crowd. Sam wasn't sure how his brother had been able to sniff out the popular places from the quieter locations, but so far Sam hadn't picked Dean up from one bar that wasn't packed, and Nick's wasn't bucking that trend. He juggled the two drinks, moving around a pair of guys literally rocking their bodies around the Christmas tree to the song while tall golden-brown lagers sloshed in their hands. One of them whooped at Sam as he passed. Sam nodded politely, retreating as quickly as possible.

He could have sworn the angel had been right behind him while he had been ordering the drinks, but when he'd looked up Cas was all the way down the bar, talking to some new guy with a long blond ponytail, whose hands fluttered in the air between them as he spoke animatedly.

Sam paused as he was jostled by another drunk patron, glancing down for a moment at the red holiday liquor sloshing all the way up to the rims. Decision made, he leaned his head down and took a huge gulp out of each glass to lower the volume of the liquid so he could hurry without spilling. The drink was sweet, and Sam could tell as it burned down his throat that there was a _lot_ of rum.

"So, what're you having, blue eyes?" Sam got close enough to hear the blond man ask Castiel, gesturing with his flighty hands toward the bar behind them. The man had apparently decided he'd put enough effort into the pick-up stage and was trying to move on. Sam could only see the back of Cas's head, but he could imagine the confusion on the angel's face as he spoke.

"I am not having…"

"Anything from a stranger," Sam finished for him, cutting in. He stepped right up to Castiel's side, placing one of the bright red drinks into the angel's hand. He cleared his throat, still burning a little warmly from the huge gulps of rum he had just downed.

"Whoa, whoa, relax," the blond man said, holding up his hands, possibly intimidated by Sam's size but probably not by the jingle that accompanied his every step as the antlers swayed on his head. "I didn't know he was here with someone," the man, finished taking a step away. He turned back to give Castiel one more appreciative look before moving on. Sam felt a headache coming on—or maybe he was just skipping straight to the hangover.

"What am I having, Sam?" Castiel asked curiously.

Sam shook his head, recalling the name of the drink. "Uh…it's a Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer." Cas stared into the red liquid so hard Sam wondered for a moment if he were studying its chemical composition. Then the tall hunter noticed for the first time that his companion was holding something in his other hand.

Sam moved closer to Cas, blocking the angel from the bar as a man with fake elf ears and a pointed green hat slid off of his stool. He ducked his head and started leading them toward a table near the back. It wasn't that large an establishment; they would probably be able to see the whole room from the corner, and hopefully react quickly to any bell activity—though Sam still had his doubts that any _bar_ , no matter how full of Christmas spirit, would ever be close enough to holy to warrant a bell being entrusted to it.

"What d'you have there, Cas?" he asked the angel, gesturing to his closed hand once they had moved far enough away from the crowd to have a little breathing room. A few more steps took them to one of the polished tables, and Sam realized for the first time that the candles were fake, with little lights flickering inside the waxy plastic.

"The man before informed me," Castiel said, turning his hand over to reveal two mini candy canes. "They are free."

Sam glanced back warily, and was relieved to see that the bar was dotted with little red dishes between the peanut bowls filled with candy canes. He gave the angel a smile and a nod and settled into one of the wooden chairs, placing the tall glass in front of him. Castiel did the same across from him, setting the two candy canes carefully between them.

Sam let his eyes drift around the room, his hand absently sitting over his jeans pocket where the small bell was hidden. The place was bright with decorations and overhead lights, and some of the chairs nearer to the huge tree had been wrapped with red ribbons. It was nice place, and Sam relaxed a little, only wincing as shouts went up, along with a drunken round of singing as "Feliz Navidad" started playing—or, Sam thought with a half-smile, more like _Fleece Nani-Na_ the way most of the patrons were performing it.

Sam turned back to Castiel, hearing the little jingle bells on his antlers ring again. The angel had his head tipped to the side and was also watching the patrons of the bar. When he noticed Sam looking at him, he fixed his attention across the table, and then reached for the drink in front of him. The tall hunter grabbed Cas's fingers before they could wrap around the glass. He squeezed them gently in his.

"Uh…let's let these sit for a while," he suggested. He was feeling a flush and warmth that wasn't just because of all the gyrators lubricated enough by alcohol to hit the floor, and Sam really didn't want to end up dancing on the bar.

"How 'bout the candy canes?" Sam suggested instead, picking up one of the little plastic-wrapped hard candies. They were blue with darker purple stripes instead of the classic red and white, the tall hunter noted, pulling back the plastic and sticking the straight end of the cane into his mouth. Apparently that meant they were some sort of berry flavor instead of peppermint; Sam might have described it as sports drink boiled down to syrup and then hardened.

Still, Sam kept the candy in his mouth, watching as Cas unwrapped his own candy cane and brought it tentatively to his lips. The tall hunter wasn't sure from his expression that the angel liked his blue candy cane any more than Sam did, but it was a new experience, and Sam loved being able to offer as many of those as he could. Castiel studied the area around them again, his face folding into a frown.

"There is something different about this place," the angel declared with narrowed eyes.

The bells jangled on Sam's deer horns as he tossed his head, thinking about the Rudolph drinks and the tree, but that was so very direct—so very Castiel. "What do you mean, different?" he asked.

"From all those places we went to in Las Vegas with Dean." Cas's eyes scanned the room carefully, and Sam couldn't help but think the angel was cataloging every single item and person in the bar. There was a robot joke there somewhere that Dean would be making, but Sam just bit his lip. He wanted Cas to be comfortable with him. The tip of the candy cane he had been sucking on poked into his tongue, and Sam bit off the end before he could make it any sharper.

Castiel's candy cane had fallen away from his lips, though his mouth was still partway open. He turned back to Sam suddenly, away from the bar where a couple of guys were clinking tall flutes full of some green liquid.

"Sam, there are only men here," he said.

Sam almost swallowed the rest of his candy cane whole. Sometimes he wondered what angels even bothered to distinguish about humans, and if Castiel really noticed the difference between men and women most of the time. Heat spread across Sam's face, as he glanced away, only for his gaze to land on a couple sharing a discreet kiss in the corner, partially hidden behind a bright poinsettia.

"Well…um…" Sam found his gaze stuck on the fingers suddenly wrapped around his drink.

"Is this a sports bar?" the angel asked. Sam recognized Dean's influence behind the question immediately, and he cursed his brother again for springing this on him, with no time to explain anything to Castiel before they came.

"Um…no, Cas." Sam knocked back some more of the fiery red drink—right over the Gatorade-flavored candy cane. The cranberry didn't do it any favors, but sometimes there was something to be said for liquid courage.

"You see," Sam began, "usually when humans get together—romantically—it's a guy and a girl, but not always…" Castiel stared directly at Sam as he spoke, his gaze unwavering, and for once Sam thought he would really have appreciated if the angel wasn't quite so focused a listener. "Uh, so…sometimes, though, two girls get together…"

Cas nodded once, though his expression didn't change. "Dean seems to appreciate those relationships," he said.

Sam bit another piece off of his candy cane. Maybe Dean would wake up with a gyrating snowman in his bed the next morning.

"Well, that's not exactly what I'm talking about," Sam said, watching as Cas's brow wrinkled in confusion. "I mean…well, let's just leave anything Dean has ever told you aside, okay?"

Sam took another huge gulp of his Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer, finding that the drink was growing on him, and also noting that despite his earlier intention he was almost at the bottom of the tall glass.

"Anyway, sometimes two guys can fall in love, and that's what this place is." The tall hunter made a vague gesture to the room around them. "All these guys are, uh, attracted to other guys." Castiel's eyes narrowed again as he looked out around the room, and Sam was struck by a sudden thought.

"Oh, man, Cas—does this place, like, offend you or something…?" Here he was buying an angel of the Lord a drink in a gay bar. Castiel's face smoothed back to a blank expression as he turned away from the bar.

"I do not care," he informed Sam flatly. The tall hunter felt a rush of relief, and also a rush of despair at the utter indifference the angel had shown as soon as he realized what Sam was saying.

The bell remained completely still and silent in his pocket, and Sam went ahead and finished off his drink. He was downright hot now, and pretty buzzed too, so much so that he almost missed the vibrating of the phone in his pocket. His fingers were clumsy as he worked the black plastic out, recognizing the number.

"Dean," he greeted, hitting the call answer button and stumbling to his feet. He signaled Cas to stay seated with a wave and moved over to the alcove near the bathroom, where the sound of the bar was quieter.

"So…" his brother drawled, "I just wanted to know how many phone numbers Cas has picked up." There was a dickish quality to his brother's voice that Sam wondered if was always there. He rolled his eyes, and he meant to take Dean to task, but instead he found himself laughing a little, staring at the sign on one of the doors, the stick figure in the skirt. What did a gay bar need with a ladies' room, anyway?

"You're probably just jealous. Checking up on your guardian angel?" Sam found himself suggesting. His brother spluttered a number of expletives that started with "fuck no" and went downhill from there. Then there was a moment of silence on the phone, broken only by another small laugh from Sam.

"Are you drunk?" Dean demanded.

"Probably," Sam admitted, trying to decide whether he should smile at the guy coming out of the bathroom or if that would be creepy.

"Jeez, Sammy. Is your wingman at least sober?" Dean asked.

"I don't think Cas can even _get_ drunk," Sam replied, letting his eyes slide back to where he had left the ange,l only to find a guy was standing at the end of the table, leaning toward the seated figure while Cas continued to suck absently at his candy cane.

"Speaking of which…" Sam couldn't quite figure out how that was a segue, but he pushed on anyways. "I gotta go run some guy off our table…" He paused for a moment, trying to think back to whether he had called Dean or vice versa. "Anyway, I'm glad we checked up," he finished, figuring that worked either way.

"Sam, wait!" his brother protested, and Sam let the phone hang from his ear for another moment, though he started heading back to the table. "Good Lord, man—look, if I don't hear from you more sober in two hours, I'm coming to get your drunk ass," Dean warned.

That was probably a good idea. Sam nodded, realizing only after he had hung up that Dean likely hadn't seen him. He shrugged, shoving the phone back into his pocket and walking up to the interloper at their table. Sam was sure he was very jealous, and maybe more drunk than he had expected, but he felt how he felt—and he felt it very strongly right now.

"Excuse me," Sam said, tapping the man's shoulder to make him move. When he turned, Sam noted slicked-brown hair and a nice suit as he moved past him to sit on the chair next to Castiel, wrapping his hands around the angel's and laying their twined fingers on the table. "This one's taken," Sam said, enunciating carefully. Mr. Suit would have to find his own angel if he wanted one—Sam had worked hard to spend Christmas with this one.

The guy looked a little surprised, licking his lips as he studied their hands—maybe trying to decide just how taken Cas really was. In the end he shrugged, weight shifting back, but he sent one last look at Castiel over Sam's shoulder.

"If you ever change your mind…" he offered, lifting an eyebrow suggestively. Castiel didn't even seem to realize the man was addressing him.

Sam let go of the angel's hands as the man walked away, taking a drink from the mostly full glass in front of him before remembering that it was Cas's and his empty glass was on the other side of the table. "So what'd that guy tell you?" he wanted to know.

Castiel looked really handsome tonight, Sam decided, setting an elbow on the table and resting his cheek in his hand as he looked over at the angel. Maybe it was the lighting; maybe it was love goggles—or was that beer goggles. He let it go as Castiel opened his mouth to speak.

"Apparently that man excels at sucking on candy canes," the angel said with a totally straight face. "Perhaps we should introduce him to Dean."

Sam stared for one long moment before bursting into laughter. Maybe because he could just imagine his brother's expression at that suggestion—or maybe because innuendo still always seemed to escape Cas.

Once he had begun laughing, Sam found he couldn't stop as he really started thinking about their situation, realizing for the first time that he had basically told some guy at a bar that Cas was his. Dean might have sent them to this place as a joke or in hopes of Sam learning some lesson, but the tall hunter had a feeling he had just learned something else about himself. He leaned against the angel, letting the laughs trail off into the shoulder of the black suit, the bells on his antlers jingling with every shake of his chest.

"Sam?" Castiel asked, but he didn't seem bothered by the laughter. The angel had only the curve of his candy cane left, and it hung between two stained fingertips, almost as though he had forgotten it. Sam lifted his head, moving his face close to the angel's.

"Say my name again, Cas," he said breathlessly. Castiel's lips parted slowly.

"Sam," he repeated, and his face was close, maybe moving closer, but Sam was distracted—plus he knew better than to trust drunken perceptions. Dean always claimed the floor was coming after him when he was plastered. Sam straightened with a wide smile, realizing what he had seen.

"Is my tongue blue?" he asked the angel. The words were slurred by the fact that he had stuck his tongue out at the same time.

Cas looked perturbed. "It is. Sam, are you ill?"

"No," the hunter laughed. "Your tongue is blue too! It's the candy canes."

Castiel looked sharply at the last curve of the hard candy still held between his fingers before setting it aside like it was poison. The angel stuck out his own tongue, crossing his eyes and trying to see all of it. Whatever he could see, he obviously wasn't pleased.

It all just made Sam laugh harder, and he leaned into the angel's shoulder again, bracing himself against Castiel's strong chest. He hadn't yet gotten ahold of himself when the volume of the music suddenly dropped by a few decibels and one of the bartenders climbed up onto a stool, gesturing for quiet in the bar. Sam muffled his laughs, looking over with interest.

"It's time for the hourly Christmas shot trivia!" the bartender declared in a loud voice, tugging the Christmas hat higher on his brow. "Who wants to take the challenge?!" His voice rose at the last and he threw his arms out to indicate the patrons in the bar.

A couple of hands went up around the room, including the pair of guys with the lagers by the tree and the blond man with the ponytail who had told Cas about the candy canes. It all just made Sam want to laugh again. Then suddenly a loud voice broke through the noise.

"How 'bout that huge reindeer guy over there?"

Sam tried to find the source of the suggestion, even as the rest of the bar began cheering and the bartender started waving at him. Sam pointed to himself, looking around, but there was no one else in the bar with reindeer antlers on their head.

"Yeah, you, man!" the voice called again, and this time Sam tracked it back to a blond man with a fake black mustache and four candy canes stuck in the gaps between his fingers, with more poking out of his stuffed pockets. "Come on, man," he said waggling his eyebrows, "join the reindeer games!"

Castiel was looking around warily at all the attention and had set a hand on Sam's knee under the table, but the hunter felt buoyed by the crowd, just giving Cas a sloppy smile before nodding and standing up from his seat. Shots or not, trivia was something he used to enjoy.

Sam ambled up to the head of the crowd, clambering onto the stool the bartender motioned to, front and center of the bar. Part of Sam was embarrassed, but that part was also drunk, probably.

"All right!" the bartender applauded, cutting through the sound of the audience and holding up a double-sized shot to the hunter in a blue glass. "You take this shot." He wiggled the glass. "Then I give you your trivia challenge, and you get two tries to answer. Got it?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded. Castiel had worked his way to the front of the crowd, and he met Sam's smile with an unreadable expression in his beautiful blue eyes.

"Jingle Bell Rock" crackled at minimal volume in the background, and Sam reached for the shot, tipping it to Castiel before tossing it back like he had on very rare occasions with his brother. He could feel the effect almost immediately, the alcohol swirling through his head and destabilizing the stool beneath him. He could also see Castiel moving imperceptibly closer, his hand jerking up at his side.

Sam was laughing even before the question came, answering laughs coming from the crowd. The bartender raised a hand to draw his attention.

"Name Santa's reindeer—backward," the man said with a smile. Sam nodded, waving his arms a little.

"Okay, let's see…" He rocked forward, rubbing bangs from his flushed face. "Blitzen, Donner, Cupid, Comet…Pancer…" The bartender hit a small buzzer, and Sam's mouth widened into an O as he laughed.

"One more try," the man urged, pulling off his Santa hat and scrubbing a hand through his hair before putting it back on. Sam nodded, trying to make the reindeer stand in order in his brain. Across the room, the man with the fake mustache was giving him the thumbs-up.

"Blitzen," he began again, hearing the slur in his own voice, "Donner, Comet, Cubix, Banner, and Nixon."

By the time Sam hit the impeached president, he was sure he had the wrong set of reindeer.

"Oh, sorry!" the bartender declared. "But there's still a consolation prize!" He motioned to Sam, who clambered back off of the stool while the music was pushed back up and the crowd dispersed, many people heading toward the bar. The man led Sam over to the side, ducking under a counter and pulling a thin yellow scarf out of a bin. As he handed it to the tall hunter, Sam realized it had been fashioned to look like a strip of caution tape.

Sam felt a few hands clap his shoulder from spectators congratulating him on his drunken try. He wrapped the scarf around his neck, heading around the edge of the room, back toward the table. He had lost track of Cas at some point, and that seemed like the best way to find him. His head was really fuzzy now, the whole bar a swirl of color and noise, and the tall hunter stumbled, grabbing onto the windowsill to keep from falling down.

He saw a flash of tan for a moment, and then there was a hand on his arm, followed by a hand on his ass. Sam laughed a little.

"Cas, I thought Dean talked about ass-grabbing…"

His voice trailed off as he turned to find that the person with their hands on him was a large bald man, maybe an inch taller than himself, who looked like a bouncer with his beefy biceps. The man had on a tan trench coat, and it took a minute for Sam's mind to catch up enough to remind him that Castiel was only wearing his black suit tonight.

"Excuse me," Sam protested, pulling away. The grip on his upper arm remained, but at least the other hand had disappeared.

"Hey, come on," the man protested in a gravelly voice. "Give me a chance, huh?"

Sam recognized the figure now as one of the creepers he had noted upon first entering the bar. He didn't really want to start a fight, especially not literally falling-down drunk. Sam squared his shoulders.

"I'm with somebody," he said flatly, elbowing the hand that held him and forcing the man to let go. Sam turned and made to walk away, but suddenly his forearm was grabbed tightly and he was spun around.

It was nothing, just a drunk creep who thought Sam was plastered enough to go home with a stranger—the tall hunter could take him easily…but for just a moment Sam's drunk mind flashed on a different, darker face, with a grip so hard in that same spot that it had scraped the bones in his arm together and left Uriel's mark on him for weeks. His heart sped up, only pumping the alcohol around his system faster.

One minute the grip was there, and then before Sam had even shaken the memory the hand was gone, and he was staring at a scene he had never expected to see. The huge man was lying on the floor, clutching his jaw, while Castiel stood there with his fingers curled into a fist, his angry eyes flashing.

"You will not touch him," Castiel warned, his other arm snaking around Sam, pulling him closer. Sam gaped like a fish. A small crowd had begun to gather, and years and years of experience causing trouble in bars made Sam spring into action even though his mind seemed to be stuck in that one moment. He grabbed Cas's hand and started running toward the exit, pulling the angel along with him.

Sam was filled with exhilaration as they ran from the bar into the cold air outside. Their breaths came out as puffs in front of them, and Sam wanted to laugh again at the thought of Cas punching some guy out for him. The whole situation made the tall hunter feel a little foolish and completely protected all at once.

Sam's drunk mind wasn't sure of much, except that Cas's hand in his was the most wonderful sensation, and it was probably Dean's turn to come get him from a bar for a change anyway.

.x.

The streets a few blocks away from the bar were nearly dark, broken only occasionally by glowing streetlights shining down on the sidewalk and illuminating otherwise invisible patches of black ice. Castiel walked slowly with Sam's hand in his. The young man was leaning heavily into him, resting against the curve of his shoulder; every once in a while his feet slipped on a frozen patch of concrete, and his fingers tightened suddenly around the angel's as their bodies collided, his momentum never enough to make Castiel so much as stumble. It made Sam laugh, though, as he tried to get his balance back, and that shook the jingle bells on his felt antlers, sending a soft tinkling out into the dark streets that just made Sam laugh harder. Castiel could feel that laugh vibrating through him as well, resonating in his chest cavity, and it had pulled the corners of his lips into a persistent smile. He was under the impression that Sam was still very drunk.

They had run a short distance after exiting the bar; at first Castiel thought they were fleeing as a result of his actions, the first time he had struck man with flesh instead of grace, but Sam was giddy and in the end they ran much farther than they needed to, finally stopping for breath at the intersection of two empty streets, the stoplights blinking red and green for no one. The light of the streetlamps poured down over them like falling snow as Sam leaned forward to brace his hands on his knees, breathing hard with the ends of his strange yellow scarf trailing almost to the ground. Castiel watched the shudder of his back under his white button-down. Then Sam had straightened and taken his hand, a simple invitation made more appealing by the laughter still curving his lips; he had set off walking again, heading nowhere in particular, and Castiel had followed, content to let Sam's wandering feet guide them.

Ahead of them, Castiel could see the sidewalk curving away from the road into the rolling lines of a snow-covered park, with a slowly arching bridge stretching over one corner of a small frozen lake. The reeds along the shore were all bent beneath the weight of their sheaths of ice. Sam led him out to the middle of the bridge and then stopped, peering over the railing at the dull blue-gray water, too still to offer a reflection. A car rolled by on the road behind them with its windows cracked and music pouring out into the darkness. Sam had played enough Christmas songs for the angel to recognize "Silver Bells."

"Dean will be arriving at the bar soon," Castiel said.

They had called the older Winchester as soon as they had stopped running and Sam had stopped laughing long enough to remember the phone in his pocket, which he'd offered to Castiel, too intoxicated to manage the call himself. Castiel had fumbled over the buttons, confused by all the letters and numbers marking each rubber patch and distracted by Sam's hand wrapped around his, guiding his fingers more and less correctly. Dean had been annoyed to hear his voice through the phone, and had been complaining about the request for a pickup, explaining that he wouldn't be able to wrap up his own business for another hour—but Castiel hadn't caught much of what the older hunter said, because his attention was fixed on Sam, teasing the back of his hand with careless fingers.

With a slow laugh, Sam straightened from the railing over the bridge, abandoning his view of the icy lake to meet Castiel's eyes. "Yeah. We should probably head back, huh?" he murmured. There was an almost sleepy quality to his voice that reminded Castiel suddenly of Sam waking up the day before, the leisurely arch of his back and the soft, unguarded smile that had graced his lips. The smile he wore now was different, widening into a laugh as Sam shoved his hands down into his pockets. "Um…you don't happen to remember which way the bar is, do you?"

"I do," Castiel told him.

He was surprised to find his answer just made Sam laugh again. The flush of the cold stood out on his cheeks as he stepped closer and rested his free hand on the angel's shoulder.

"Of course you do," Sam whispered. "You're perfect, Cas."

Castiel looked up into Sam's half-lidded eyes and felt something tighten in his chest, a pressure that sharpened as he watched Sam's lips quivering over the fog of every escaping breath. He had felt the same jolt in the bar, in the moment when Sam asked him to say his name again, such a strange request, such a strangely breathless question. He had leaned in to get a better look in Sam's eyes, and for an instant as he spoke he thought he saw something in them, the name crackling on his tongue like a spark of lightning—then Sam had laughed and leaned back, and Castiel had been left confused, adrift, uncertain what he had even been reaching for.

Sam was pulling away again, the warmth of his breath disappearing from Castiel's face. "Let's go. Dean will be pissed if he gets there before us. Um, left or right?"

They were nearly back to the road when Sam slipped suddenly on a patch of black ice. His arms flew out to his sides, his body already snapping into rigid lines as it prepared to smash into the cold ground. Castiel wrapped his arms around Sam and pulled the taller man back into his chest, stopping his momentum in an instant. The motion felt suddenly familiar to him, his body remembering the weight of Sam in free fall when he had pulled him out of the road the day before, out of the range of roaring headlights. Sam took a few deep breaths, and Castiel could feel his heart hammering against the folds of his arms, tight around his rib cage; then Sam's breath hitched, and suddenly he was laughing again, the sound echoing in the empty street around them. Castiel tipped his head to one side, glancing up at Sam's expression over the slope of his shoulder.

"Are you all right, Sam?" he asked, flattening his palm against the young man's chest.

Sam did not answer for a long moment, caught up in his own infectious laughter. Then he turned in Castiel's arms and ducked his head to lean against the angel's, pressing their temples together. Sam closed his eyes and Castiel felt the heartbeat settling down under his hands.

"You always catch me, Cas," Sam said. A tiny laugh chased the words and brushed Castiel's face like a rustle of wind. "No one else can catch me like you do."

There was no reason to do so—Sam had long stopped falling. But all the same Castiel found he was tightening his hold around his companion's back, pulling Sam just a little farther into his embrace. "I will always catch you, Sam," he promised, and felt the heartbeat jump under his palms. Sam's smile widened at the corners.

"I know," he whispered.

Castiel was not sure if he did. He was not sure the words were enough to explain that he did not just mean with his hands, but with his wings also, and every other fragment of his whole. But for the moment, he was content to leave it at that, and to let Sam lean into him. Dean would come soon, and then Sam would break away—but until he did, Castiel would stay where he was, and hold his breath so that he could remember each of Sam's brushing his face.


	18. December 17

**December 17**

Sam was a dead man.

Dean's little brother had always been a pain in the ass, but the last twenty-four hours it was like Sam was trying to set some kind of record. First there had been the shit with the bar. Sending Sam and Cas to a gay bar with Sam in idiotic reindeer horns and Cas dressed up like a male prostitute? Hilarious. Picking Sam and Cas up from said bar two hours later with Sam wrapped up in caution tape and so drunk off his ass he slipped on the icy parking lot and Cas basically carried him to the Impala giggling like a newlywed? Not fucking funny. Dean didn't know what his brother was thinking anyway, getting drunk in a gay bar—that was like asking to get groped, especially since Sam only seemed to attract freaks and ex-cons, and stalker guardian angels, maybe. Dean almost drove off the road when he caught a glimpse of them cuddling in the back seat—well, it was more like Sam passing out on Cas's shoulder and Cas sitting there like a rock with his bug eyes glued to Sam's face, but that was close enough to make Dean sick.

Karma had seen fit to give Sam a wicked hangover the next morning, which Dean thought was only fair. But apparently karma was a bitch and she'd always been in Sam's pocket, because that was the moment his little brother convinced him to spend the rest of the day bell-hunting at the cosmic wasteland that was Santa's Village.

Dean stood up straighter where he was waiting in line to buy ornaments and glanced around at the carnage again. The whole first floor of the enormous house on the Hill had been decked out like frickin' Whoville, with holly and garlands and like four Christmas trees, not to mention enough tinsel to hang himself three times over. Worse even than that, the whole place was stuffed to the gills with running, screaming children—screaming while they waited to sit on Santa's lap, screaming while they made gingerbread houses that were more like steaming piles of ginger-crap, reaching a particularly brain-numbing pitch every time one of the little suckers won at the games set up in the next room, beanbag toss and clothespin fishing and other baloney. At the booth nearest the ornament table, a little harpy in red velvet and pigtails threw a tiny plastic basketball through an enormous plastic hoop and shrieked so loud Dean was shocked the windows didn't burst; he pressed a hand over his ear and forced a smile at the fawning mother—not because there was anything to smile about in this hellhole, but because he'd already been flagged twice by security. Apparently single guys with no kids really only came to Santa's Village for bad reasons.

Dean rocked back on his heels and cracked his knuckles in his pockets. Yeah, Sam was going to pay in blood for tricking him into this shit.

Dean hadn't been listening all that closely when Sam explained what Santa's Village was. Admittedly, half of that was because he was busy roasting Pop Tarts in the microwave oven, but part of it was because Sam had his head buried under a pillow at the time, trying to block out the light. But he had definitely said something about a charity event hosted by a sorority, and nothing at all about a bunch of snot-nosed kids with their faces painted like Frosty. Turned out the whole circus was held in a sorority house, but that was as close to hot college girls as Dean had gotten all day—the stairs to the bedrooms on the top floors were actually _roped off_ , and the ladies working the game tables weren't at all what he'd had in mind for Santa's sexy helpers; they were more like Mrs. Clause after she gained a hundred pounds and Saint Nick dumped her for a younger woman. And Dean was positive that nut in the Snoopy costume out front had pinched his ass going in for the hug. He should've laid that creep out, saved this place a lawsuit down the road.

But the kicker on this whole crap day, and the reason he was still hanging around this warzone after more than an hour? Out of all the places they'd looked and all the bars he'd been more than happy to sidle into the day before, this one actually had a bell. There was a bell at Santa's fucking Village.

This was the absolute last time Dean got involved with a scavenger hunt organized by a nun.

He'd been on his way back from the security table for the second time when he felt the telltale buzz in his pocket. A second later he felt something else—apparently the local bell thought it would be hilarious to whip a beanbag into his face with about four times the force any six-year-old could manage. Dean took it right in the eye and then tripped over a string of lights and went down hard on his ass right in the middle of the game room, to the horror of the Mrs. Clause brigade and the gut-busting amusement of some fat kid who'd been standing nearby, pounding Hershey's Kisses and laughing so hard his pants almost split. He might have showed that kid what was funny if he hadn't already been on his third strike with the red-haired security guard who wore sunglasses inside in December.

Honestly, there was something wrong with this place.

It had taken him a while to figure out where the sucker was—the bell, not the kid—because everything was decked out like a Macy's parade, but eventually Dean had noticed a golden bell hanging from the tree behind a table in the lobby, where a high school kid in a bad elf costume was selling kitschy little carved wooden ornaments with kids' names written on them in Sharpie. There were too many people around to just grab it and run, so he'd had no choice but to get in line with all the other saps. He'd been one away from the front for probably ten minutes now—apparently the old biddy in the fur coat had like a hundred grandchildren, on top of being too deaf to hear what the cashier was asking her.

At last Grandma moved off, and Dean stepped up to the folding table, giving the girl at the cashbox his second-most charming smile. She was too young for him, so there was no point in putting in full effort. "How's it going? Hey, I've got a question—how much for that gold bell on the tree?" Surely one time it had to be that easy, right?

The teenager turned to follow his pointing finger, but she was shaking her head before she even turned around again, tugging a curl of blond hair out from under the red and green hat that probably marked her as the elf jester. "I'm sorry, sir. That's not for sale. The only ornaments we have are Smiley St. Nick and the Happy Reindeer."

She gestured over her shoulder at the carved wooden pieces of shit hanging on the tree, Santa with his arms out like a kidnapper and a bunch of flat reindeer with googly eyes. Dean tried to keep his smile easy as he slipped into plan B.

"Okay, no problem. Let me get one of those."

The girl's face lit up like a sunflower under her elf hat. "Wonderful! Which one do you want?"

Dean glanced between the two ornament styles, trying to decide which one looked less like something that belonged on a serial killer's Christmas tree. "Uh…give me one of the Happy Reindeer. The happiest one," he added with a smile so insincere it hurt his damn teeth. The girl didn't seem to notice.

"Sure thing. What's your kid's name?" she asked, digging through the tree.

"Uh…it's Sammy." Dean leaned over the table and reached out for the bell—but before he could snag it the girl popped up again, and he lurched back, carefully keeping all his rage on the inside. Blond Elf smiled at him as she uncapped her Sharpie.

"Sammy, Santa's Village, December 17," she wrote out carefully across the reindeer's back, following it with the year and then sliding the ornament across the table toward Dean. "That'll be five seventy-five."

Dean almost swallowed his tongue at the thought of spending that much on a tacky reindeer with a manic grin instead of buying himself a six-pack—but the bell was still glinting at him from the tree, and there was no way he was letting that fucker slip past him because it was guarded by a Care Bear. Dean reached up and raked a hand through his hair. "You know, I'd better get one for the other kid, too—don't want them to fight over it."

"Oh, okay," the girl said, letting go of Sammy Reindeer. "What's the name?"

"Uh, it's Cas—Cas…Cassie," Dean stammered. He thought he was blown for a second, but the next thing he knew the girl's mouth fell open in a little coo, her hands clasping over her heart.

"That is such an adorable name," Blond Elf told him, in a sugary voice that made Dean want to gag. "I bet she's just a little angel."

"Oh, she's an angel all right," Dean muttered. The girl behind the counter melted even more.

"Aww. Well, you're in luck—we actually have girl reindeer this year. At the committee meeting, the trustee was like, 'Reindeer are unisex,' you know, but my friends and I did this whole petition and got enough signatures that they had to buy girl reindeer, too. It's only fair, right? I mean, Santa's a guy."

"Far as I've heard," Dean said. The girl giggled in a way that might have been sexy if she were ten years older.

"Let me see. I know they're around here somewhere…" She stepped around to the back of the tree, digging through the branches for the elusive girl deer, and in the second she was out of sight Dean sprang into action like Spiderman, one arm shooting out and snatching the bell so fast it didn't even ring. By the time Blondie stepped back to the front, his hands were back in his pockets and he had the same mindless, cheery face on as everyone else in this level of hell. The girl gushed as she held up her prize: a reindeer with a pink saddle and monstrously huge eyes made even bigger by long curling eyelashes.

"Here we go. Isn't she cute? They're so popular we're almost out." She bent down and wrote "Cassie" along its back in bright black Sharpie, and Dean almost choked when she put a little heart over the 'i' instead of a dot. Blondie handed him both ornaments and pushed her hair back behind her ear, reminding Dean that he really had to snap his six-four little brother out of that habit. "That's eleven fifty all together," she said.

"Great. Perfect." Dean dug into his jeans and then handed her twelve in singles, preparation for the strip club he hadn't been able to hit last night because somebody was drunk and needed a ride. He smiled as he accepted his change and slipped the god-awful ornaments into his pocket next to the real prize. "Worth every penny," he told her, waving as he stepped away from the table. If he ever went to Hell again, this place was definitely going to be there—but the closer he got to the exit, the better he felt, because fuck it, he'd bagged a bell at his first stop today, and Sam was stuck at home popping Advil. Dean always knew he was the shit, but it was nice to be reminded every once in a while.

He was almost at the front door when he felt a sudden tug on the back of his leather jacket, like he'd been hooked on something. He turned around expecting to see Red in his bizarre sunglasses, but instead he found the fat kid from before, staring up at him with a clown frown on his chocolate-smeared face. The kid let go to cross his arms over his chest.

"Did you steal a bell off that tree?" he accused.

Dean forced himself to keep smiling. "What tree? I didn't steal anything."

"Yes, you did," the kid repeated. "I saw you. I'm gonna tell the elf lady and then they're gonna throw you in jail, and you'll never get out."

For a second Dean just stared him down, wondering how he had sunk so low that some little punk in a sweaty t-shirt thought he could be pushed around. Then he bent down until they were eye to eye and raised his eyebrows.

"You want to know why I stole that bell?" Dean said, digging the damn thing out of his pocket and watching the kid go cross-eyed trying to look at it. "There's a monster in this bell. It's got gnarly teeth and terrible claws and these huge red eyes that glow in the dark. And if I don't take this bell right now, he's gonna pop out and eat everyone in this whole yuppie town." The kid's eyes darted between Dean and the bell, growing wider by the second as Dean leaned in to finish with a whisper. "And you know what he likes to eat most? Fat kids." Then he straightened and slipped the bell back into his pocket. "So what's it gonna be, tubs? You still gonna tell on me?"

The kid stared at him for a minute without moving, frozen like a horror popsicle. Then he took off running and yelling for his mom, and Dean shook his head, slipping out the front door before the squaller brought him any unwanted attention.

He fucking hated kids.

.x.

Castiel had not enjoyed grocery shopping by himself, but he found it much more pleasant with Sam. The angel had memorized the arrangement of goods on his last trip, less out of any intention than because he had walked each aisle many times—but Sam seemed to know instinctively where the things he wanted would be located, and even more impressively, he knew which brand of spaghetti sauce was the right one as soon as they walked up to the display; Castiel had struggled with that, since compositionally most of them were identical and the subtleties of human advertising were lost on him. They had brought a list of what Sam needed to make dinner, but the tall hunter didn't seem to be constrained by it; as they drifted through the store, his fingers often strayed to brush something unexpected, sandwich cookies with white icing or bottles of dark soda, especially if the packaging was marked out in red and green or blue snowflakes. Many such items ended up in their cart, each one bringing a slight smile to the corner of Sam's mouth as he glanced at Castiel, his hand wavering over whatever it was for a moment before slipping it into the basket. Castiel didn't know what cinnamon rolls were, nor so many other things—but he decided he was willing to try them, if Sam was going to keep smiling like that.

There were a large number of bags, by the end; he and Sam carried the first load up to the kitchen together, and then Castiel went back for the rest of them, leaving Sam to put the groceries away. On his second trip up, he was surprised by music on the stairs—the kitchen was silent except for the soft melody that sounded like a scatter of chimes in the still air of the upper floor. Castiel didn't realize until he stepped off the stairs that the sound came from a snowglobe, one of many that dotted the Gerbers' living room; this one usually stood on the buffet next to the nativity scene, but it had been wound and shaken and moved to the table, the snow inside swirling around tiny ice skaters, circling again and again a painted tree with bright red ornaments. It took the angel a moment to recognize "Sleigh Ride," another Christmas song that Sam had played for him.

The paper grocery bags sat untouched on the marble counter, and Sam was standing before the sliding door that led out to the backyard, staring into the fogged glass. The patio outside was almost completely hidden by the condensation on the window, and Sam's colors were sharp against it, the green turtleneck and light brown pants and the toes twitching in his red and white reindeer socks. Castiel tipped his head to one side and set his own bags down on the long dining room table.

"Sam," he said.

Sam turned at his voice and offered a smile over his shoulder. "Hey. Sorry about the groceries. I got distracted." He broke off and reached out a hand to the snowglobe, turning it over and winding it a few more times. When he set it down, the music was faster, the notes tumbling against each other almost too rapidly to convey a song. Castiel glanced past Sam and then took a step toward the younger Winchester, his eyebrows drawing together.

"What are you looking at?" the angel asked, considering the shimmer of the clouded window.

Sam laughed and dropped his gaze to his feet. "Nothing. Just…remembering something, I guess." When he lifted his head again, his eyes were brighter, his smile spilling out from the corners of his lips; Castiel was surprised how much younger he looked in that moment, all of the weariness that he carried with him, the wrinkles from squinting at a bright computer screen and the circles around his eyes, dissolving into a carefree smile. "The windows used to fog up like this in the Impala sometimes," Sam said. Slowly, he lifted one finger and drew it through the condensation, leaving a sliver of clear glass behind. "It doesn't have a defroster or anything, and that heater's ancient—barely works. When we were young enough that Dean and I were both in the back seat, we'd play hangman on the windows, or draw pictures or whatever. Nothing that really qualified as art, but…"

Sam let the sentence hang, the drifting notes from the snowglobe filling the space between then as he concentrated on the movement of his finger. Castiel watched him draw a lopsided circle, followed by a long line, and then four shorter ones—he couldn't place the shape until Sam added eyes and a smile, and then he recognized it as a stick figure, like the ones scrawled in Bobby's book, the simplest representation of man. He watched as Sam added little curls of hair above the shoulders and then started on another figure, and wondered at humanity's obsession with duplicating its own image in every medium—in paint on cave walls, in statuary, in endless photographs. Perhaps man felt his existence to be that tenuous, and needed constantly to assure himself that he was there, through mirages of his own image—in sculptures out of snow, in snowglobe ice skaters, in fingers on white glass. The song was slowing down again. Sam laughed and the warmth of it hit the window, filling the lines of his picture with a soft white edge.

"Dean liked to draw aliens and put my name under them. I tried to draw him getting eaten by a shark once, but it just sort of looked like a log with teeth." He drew his hand back from the window so Castiel could see the second figure. The shape was the same, though the smile was smaller, the hair only suggested on top of its head—but the greatest distinction was in the two shapes bursting from its back, one on either side, as if to represent wings or immense jutting horns rising out of the spine. Perhaps that one was not a person at all. Sam returned his finger to the glass and made a little circle over the creature's head. His lips pulled up at the corners. "Sorry. I'm not very good at this."

"What are you drawing?" Castiel asked, leaning in to study the second figure. The shapes along the back were strange to him—he hadn't seen any such representations in the pictures at Bobby's house, or in any of the stick figures Dean had drawn on diner napkins while waiting for the check, always too eager to return to the road to be still. He glanced up at Sam to find that the young man was watching him closely, searching for something in his expression as the snowglobe song wound into its final notes, so far apart, each one threatening to be the last—then Sam ducked his head and smiled, a tiny puff of laughter breaking away from his lips. He lifted his hand again and drew a larger shape around the two figures—a heart, Castiel realized. The angel frowned slightly as he studied the glass.

"What is it a picture of, Sam?" he asked again. Sam just smiled.

"Nothing, Cas. I'm just making a Christmas wish." Sam returned his gaze for a moment before he reached down and grabbed Castiel's hand, lifting it to the glass and using the angel's index finger to draw a tiny cross between the two figures, a symbol of addition. The glass was cold but Castiel only noticed it in passing; his mind was on the warmth of Sam's hand over his, and the rhythm of the young man's heart, beating like breath through the fingers pressed to his palm.

For a moment, that heartbeat was the only sound in the world, the snowglobe silent and still on the table behind them. Then Sam's cell phone buzzed in his pocket, and he jumped, dropping the angel's hand as he dug into his jeans. Castiel's fingers prickled, not yet ready to let go.

"It's from Dean." Sam squinted at the screen, and in spite of the poor angle Castiel thought he could read two words in all capitals, _SCREW YOU_ , the entirety of the text message. Sam rolled his eyes. "Looks like he's not coming back anytime soon." For a moment he paused, lost in thought as the screen of his phone faded to black—then Sam looked up and caught the angel's gaze, his eyes reflecting the white panel of the glass door. "Hey—we have to put the groceries away first, but if Dean's not going to be here anyway, let's go out to dinner instead." His smile got wider as he tipped his head to the side, something secretive and playful touching his expression. "Do you know what a table for two is, Cas?"

The answer seemed obvious. But considering Sam's expression, and the picture on the door behind him, the clear lines already beginning to fog again with the pulse of warm air rushing up from the vent in the floor, Castiel doubted it was truly that simple. "I am not sure," he admitted.

Sam just laughed. "I guess I'll be your first, then."

Those words, too, seemed to hold a deeper meaning, judging by the teeth peeking out of Sam's smile as he stepped toward the kitchen. Their fingers brushed in passing and Castiel realized suddenly how cold Sam's still were, the chill of the glass persisting on his skin—and then he wondered if the van heater was good enough, and if Sam might let him take his hand in the car. That would be a first as well.

.x.

Dean was royally pissed by the time he stumbled into the Gerbers' house, a six-pack of beer and three bags of licorice tucked under his arms. He'd been riding the high of cleaning up a bell at Santa's Village, so he'd decided to go for two and knock off another spot on Sam's list—namely, the sleigh ride shindig driving circles around the city's big central park. Dean was no fan of carriages and Clydesdales, but he was sick of Sam sneaking pseudo-dates with his guardian angel under the guise of bell hunting. Turned out he should have left them to it on this one—Dean didn't know what that horse had been eating, but someone needed to give Barney some Beano before his next ride, because the flatulent fucker had let one off every other minute, and stopped to take a crap on the minute in between. Even the cabbie was holding his nose by the end of it. Dean would have bailed two minutes in if he hadn't been on a mission; in the end, though, he had nothing to show for it but a souvenir horseshoe and a cloud of funk so thick Dean was pretty sure his clothes would just have to be burned. He'd get on that, right after he'd had a beer and a shower.

"Yo, Sammy! Cas! Anybody home?" Dean called as he made his way up the stairs. When he reached the kitchen he found a note on the counter—something about groceries and his little brother weaseling out on him again, off to a romantic dinner with their bumbling angel. Which meant his sleigh ride from hell had been an utter waste of time. If Sam hadn't at least stocked the fridge before taking off Dean would have ripped off his horse-fart shirt, buried it in Sam's pillows on the couch and said pleasant dreams, fucker—but since there was a package of Oreos on the table with his name on it, he decided to go with something a little lighter.

Dean set the Oreos next to his beer and stepped over to the sliding glass door. It was clear now, but the glass got foggy every time the furnace kicked in, and since Sam spent about 75% of his time these days puttering around in the kitchen in a kerchief, the sliding door was the perfect place to draw something truly horrible to torture his brother the next time the heat came on. Dean grinned to himself and leaned forward to breathe on the glass.

It turned out there was already something horrible drawn on the sliding door—Dean pulled back and narrowly dodged the need to vomit as a picture appeared in the cloudy surface, a stick figure with Sam's flippy girl hair smiling at another god-awful figure, this one with spiny wings and a lopsided halo. Dean's face contorted as he stared at the big loopy heart and the little plus sign between the two forms, like something in the back of a seventh-grade-girl's math notebook.

"Oh, hell no, Sammy," Dean muttered to himself, wrinkling his nose. Then he pulled back his coat and rubbed his sleeve over the window until the whole disturbing picture was gone, not even a trace of the sickening heart left on the glass. Dean shook his head as he turned back to grab his beer and Oreos. He was going to have to put a stop to this once and for all; maybe he'd keep the details of the sleigh ride to himself and send Sam and Cas to Barney, after all. Nobody could be romantic with that literal shit going on the whole time. He glanced once more at the note on the counter, and then whipped out his lighter and set the corner of it on fire, taking some definite pleasure in watching it burn.

If they came home holding hands, Dean was going to flatten them both.


	19. December 18

**December 18**

Sam carefully lifted a glass ornament from the shelf of the shop, raising it into the soft light streaming in from the wide windows. The little shop was arrayed with all-white decorations, long shining garlands crisscrossing the walls and glass beads dangling in the windows. Half the small shop was filled with aisles of ornaments and frames and small figurines, while the other half was covered with tables of Christmas flower displays.

The Asian girl behind the counter had smiled at Sam over a silver apron and an armful of red-tipped white roses when he and Cas entered, and then settled on helping a slightly lost-looking man who was trying to decide what kind of flowers best matched the ring he had bought. It was a lovely place, and Sam wasn't sorry when he felt no twinge from the bell in his pocket. He was also in no hurry to move on.

The glass ornament was beveled, catching the light and refracting it, and Sam lowered it slowly, running a finger over the rough surface. It was a snowman, carved simply with three round balls stacked up and a top hat tipped to the side of his leaning form. He had no arms, and only the suggestion of a scarf and a face carved into the clear material. This snowman did not have a wide smile or an impossible coffee drink like the one Sam had stared at for so long all those weeks ago, but it still seemed somehow perilous in the tall hunter's hands. Sam turned it slowly in his fingers. It really was a beautiful piece, hand-carved and just big enough to lie across the surface of his palm.

Sam heard the slow, familiar footsteps of the angel walking up to his side. He knew that if he turned, he would be able to see the solemn expression in the blue eyes that always seemed to fix so intently on everything. Castiel said nothing but reached out to lift another of the snowman from the shelf. And Sam wondered suddenly why the most beautiful things were almost always the most easily broken.

He placed the glass decoration carefully back onto the shelf, turning to face the angel. Castiel was studying the form of the glass snowman in his hand. Sam watched the angel's fingers slide along the uneven surface, maybe trying to decide exactly what the ornament depicted.

Part of Sam wanted to tell Cas that it was a snowman, even though he probably recognized that by now. Another part of him suddenly wanted to leave, and he felt a tensing of the muscles in his legs, almost took a step away. Instead it was his hand that moved to hover in the air between him and Castiel.

"You could break that very easily," Sam said, biting his lip. Castiel's eyes flickered up to meet his, and Sam shuffled his feet. "I mean, it's fragile, Cas, and…just, don't break it, okay?"

Sam felt a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and he reached out to pull another glass ornament off the shelf. This one had a triangular body and a round head, with just the hint of a halo etched on top of it. There was also a tiny pair of wings protruding from the back, much like the ones Sam had drawn on the window the day before.

Castiel's eyes scanned the ornament, but there was no recognition in them. Sam smiled a little wider. The angel reached forward to return the snowman.

"Wait," Sam said. Castiel's hand hung in the air in front of the window, the glass glittering between his fingertips. "Don't put it back." The angel blinked a few times before withdrawing his hand. Sam rubbed the back of his neck, pressing his lips together. "I mean, I'm going to buy these two ornaments."

It was an impulsive decision, but as Sam watched Castiel nod and curl the delicate snowman carefully into his fingers, he knew that the ornaments would look best side by side. And the angel and the snowman on the Christmas tree would last longer than trails of condensation on the window, even if the glass was beautifully, achingly fragile.

.x.

Castiel stood at the edge of the living room rug, studying the two newest ornaments glittering on the Christmas tree. It was only afternoon, but Sam had turned the tree lights on nonetheless; the soft white glow pearled inside of the two figures, making the clear glass look milky against the background of dark, bristling needles. Most of the ornaments were some distance apart, the bulbs of smiling snowman heads dispersed across the spruce tree—but Sam had put the new ornaments right together, had even moved a figurine of a skiing snowman in sunglasses to make a space for them to hang, so close together that the strange, stunted protrusions on the back of the conical form brushed up against the snowman's side. Castiel reached out and cupped his hand around the snowman ornament, the one that Sam had cautioned him was so fragile, so easily broken. He wasn't sure why Sam had stepped back from him as he'd said it, as if he were afraid of breaking the ornament himself—Sam who was so always careful with delicate things. Castiel slid his thumb down the snowman's silver string. Perhaps he had been holding it wrong.

From behind him came the clink of porcelain edges; the angel dropped his hand and turned around to watch Sam where he sat at the corner of the dining room table, his knees out to either side, trying to glue the broken pieces of a snowman teapot back together. Dean had been involved somehow in its demise, though Sam had been vague, only mumbling under his breath that it was a "casualty of war." Dean had said the same thing about the clock in the master bedroom, which pictured a trio of snowmen sharing one long scarf and had sung Christmas carols on the hour until Dean ripped the batteries out and threw them in the trash. Castiel wasn't sure what war they were waging, but he found himself wondering, as he watched Sam cradling both halves of the ceramic snowman's head in his palms, a tube of superglue pinched between his fingers, if all snowmen were inherently fragile. If that was the reason for Sam's caution.

He was reaching for the ornament again when the doorbell rang, the high and low tone echoing beneath the cathedral ceilings. Sam looked at Castiel and then down at his hands, pressing the seam of the snowman's face together.

"Shit, um…Cas, could you see who's at the door? Sorry, I'm just right in the middle of this, and I think if I move I'm going to glue at least one piece of this to my hand…" Castiel nodded, the motion pulling a tiny smile onto Sam's face. "Thanks. I should really make Dean do this, but the last time he got his hands on superglue he chemically bonded two of his fingers together…"

Castiel found that very few of Sam's stories about Dean surprised him, after all this time. With soundless steps he moved to the top of the stairs and looked down at the front door; there was a tall, thin window set into the wall beside it, and he could see someone peering in, hands cupped around her face. It took him a moment to recognize the features of the woman who lived across the street, the one who's infinitely small dog barked at the angel whenever their paths crossed. Dean referred to the short brown-haired woman as the Termineighbor, but Castiel doubted that was her name, as their mailbox bore the name _The Marenkas_ in crimson lettering. The woman at the window noticed him and waved one arm, upsetting a flurry of snowflakes from her purple gloves; Castiel studied her impassively for a moment before he turned back to the dining room, meeting Sam's eyes over the young man's shoulder.

"It is Mrs. Marenka, from across the street," he reported. He glanced back down at the figure outside the window, waving harder now and scowling up at him. "She seems displeased."

Sam winced a little and bit his lip. "Okay. Um. You should probably…you know, open the door. Ask what she wants."

Castiel wasn't sure. He wasn't fond of the Marenkas' dog, and Dean had warned him to stay away from the woman who wielded its leash, explaining that a ballbuster like that could chew him up and spit him out again in three seconds without even noticing the taste. As with many of the things Dean said, Castiel came away from the conversation less with an understanding of what the older Winchester was trying to tell him than a vague sense of unease—but Sam's hands were still occupied, struggling to put a broken snowman back together, the guardian of fragile things, and after hesitating a moment Castiel did as he was asked, descending the stairs to pull the door open. The woman on the other side smiled at him as it swung back, but she still looked angry to Castiel. The angel tipped his head to one side.

"What do you want?" he repeated carefully.

From the floor above him Sam gave a startled cough, as if he had choked on a poorly taken breath. The woman on the front porch blinked and clenched her fingers around the bronze-colored box she carried in one gloved hand, her smile becoming, if possible, even less amiable.

"Hi," she offered, her eyelids flickering against the soft flakes of swirling snow. "I'm Lily Marenka, your neighbor. The blue house, at 2912?" She was silent for a moment, as if waiting for an answer, though Castiel wasn't sure what response she required to facts she presumably already knew—when he said nothing, she shifted and pulled her lavender jacket tighter around her shoulders, stomping her white fur boots hard against the tiled porch. "My husband John works with Harold Gerber at NetTech Systems—well, he's Harold's boss, actually. HR manager for the whole development floor? I don't know if Marcie told you that."

"I did not speak to Marcie Gerber," Castiel replied. "I am not among those assigned to communication. You will not be able to speak to her, either, as she is not here."

The woman gave a sharp laugh and tossed her head, her fingers digging into the bronze paper of the box. "No, of course not. She's off with Harold and the kids on a last-minute trip to Hawaii, with the month of vacation days that magically appeared in Harold's file the morning before they left." Mrs. Marenka flipped her dark hair from one shoulder, her eyes narrowing slightly as she stared up at Castiel. "You know, I'm not trying to pry or anything, but my husband's in HR—I think he would have told me if Harold had a chunk of vacation days saved up. Or Marcie—God knows she couldn't keep a secret. She sees me with a bad perm, and half the members of the PTA know about it in how long? I'm just saying, you know?"

Castiel did not know what the woman was saying at all. He glanced back up the stairs, listening to the clink of snowman pieces sliding together—it seemed Sam's hands were still occupied. He turned back to the door with a small frown.

"What do you want?" he repeated, in case he had not asked properly the first time.

Mrs. Marenka's mouth hung open briefly, and then snapped shut, her teeth meeting with an audible click. Castiel looked down into her face and catalogued her flickering expressions, indignation and confusion and impatience, and understood again how small humans could be, individual bundles of uncontrolled instinct, rage and greed and jealousy. Then the woman cleared her throat and held out the box, her eyebrows lifting to her hairline.

"Well. The Gerbers were in such a hurry to book it to paradise that Harold didn't even stop at the NetTech office and pick up his box of holiday chocolates—all the employees get one. Anyway, John picked it up for him, and since Marcie said some _friends_ would be housesitting for them I just came by to bring it over." The woman paused to roll her eyes, swatting at the snowflakes coming down over her head. "I think we would have been perfectly within our rights to keep it—I mean, they get a _vacation in paradise_ , is it so wrong to steal a few chocolates? But _no_ , I had to marry the good neighbor. You know John."

"I do not know him," Castiel told her flatly. He rarely spared aggravation for humans, aside from Dean, but he found the conversation had begun to irritate him. He reached out and took the box from her hand, glancing at the words _Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory_ shimmering across the top, and then stepped back and set a hand on the doorknob. "We will accept these."

Mrs. Marenka scoffed and braced her hands on her hips. "You know, it wouldn't kill you to say thank you, whoever you are. And how do you know Marcie, anyway? This whole thing is a little fishy if you ask me—I mean, John is Harold's boss, okay? If anyone was going to get a surprise trip to Hawaii, it should have been us. What makes Harold so special?"

"Harold Gerber was called to serve a higher purpose," Castiel replied, shifting back another step. The woman on the porch followed as if she would chase him into the house.

"A higher purpose? What's that supposed to mean? What _higher purpose_ calls for an overweight software engineer in his fifties whose only hobby is golf?"

Castiel felt his eyebrows draw together, a frown settling over his lips. "The angels called upon him to serve the will of Heaven."

Up the stairs, Castiel heard a loud bang; it sounded like Sam hitting his knee hard against the underside of the table. Mrs. Marenka gave a false laugh. "Heaven?" she mocked. Then suddenly her eyes widened, and her expression transformed into one of disbelief, her mouth opening and closing twice before she found her tongue. "Wait a minute. You're one of those religious cults, aren't you? What are you, Jehovah's Witnesses? Mormons? Marcie was always crazy about those Jesus freaks—I told her one day she and the kids would wind up in a barn drinking Kool-Aid." Then she gasped and slapped her hands over her mouth, taking a step back on the porch. "Oh my God. Are they really even in Hawaii? Or did you bury them all in the backyard?" The woman took another step back and brought her finger up, leveling it at Castiel's face. "I am going straight to my computer, and if Marcie's Facebook isn't covered in Hawaii pictures, I'll have you in cuffs so fast you won't even have time to shave for your mug photo. I knew you were a criminal from the second I laid eyes on you! And so did Tito! Dogs know—you can bet your cheap suit."

Castiel glanced down at his black suit, partially hidden under his trench coat. He looked up at the woman once more. Then he stepped back inside the house and closed the door, slightly harder than he had intended to. The tall snowman stationed under the front window rattled as he turned the lock.

When he reached the top of the stairs, Sam was bent over the teapot on the dining room table, piecing together the bulge of the body. Castiel moved to stand next to his chair and Sam glanced up at him from under the fringe of his bangs, his hazel eyes bright beneath his lashes. Castiel somehow had the sense that the young man was struggling not to laugh.

"Sam," the angel said, "what is Kool-Aid?"

Sam pressed his lips together. "Um," he began. Then he cleared his throat softly and shook his head, turning his gaze to the object in Castiel's hands. "You know what, never mind about that, Cas. What's in the box?"

"Chocolates," Castiel said, glancing down at the logo again. He set the box down on the table and unwrapped the clear plastic casing, then flipped open the top of the box, pushing back a slip of paper to reveal three long rows of darker and lighter brown, interspersed with drizzles of white chocolate and a few pieces in foil. Sam whistled under his breath.

"Wow. Those look…expensive. Don't let Dean see them—he'll inhale the box." Castiel frowned, slightly concerned at the idea, and Sam laughed, shaking his head over the pieces of the snowman. "It's an expression, sorry. Hey—can I have one?" Castiel nudged the box a few inches closer. Sam didn't move except to raise an eyebrow, glancing between the angel and the ceramic shards in his hands. "Are you going to help me out here, Cas?"

It took Castiel a moment to understand what Sam wanted—then he remembered the tall hunter lifting a forkful of pasta, holding out the rim of a muffin, raising his chopsticks to the angel's lips. Castiel reached out but hesitated over the assortment of colors and shapes, his brow furrowed.

"Which one would you like?" he asked.

Sam laughed again, more quietly this time. "Surprise me," he suggested. "That's sort of the point."

Castiel looked down at the box, lost in thought. The box offered no guide, but it hardly mattered; the chocolates were transparent to him, the knowledge of their contents as simple and automatic as counting Sam's breaths or the beats of his heart. He lingered over a milk chocolate with a toffee center, a lighter, solid disk imprinted with a stag, before finally lifting out a small dark chocolate mound, the paper crinkling under his fingers as he pulled it away. Sam tipped his head back. Castiel pushed the chocolate carefully into his mouth, and as he drew away his fingers brushed the swell of Sam's upper lip, just grazing the soft skin—and suddenly Castiel's mind was on something he'd never thought of before: a kiss, the gentle press of lips together, a gesture so human, so physical, that it had never occurred to him. The thought burned like fire, leaving him off balance for a long moment as Sam's eyes slipped closed, his lashes dark against his skin—then he looked up again and smiled, licking the corners of his lips before he spoke.

"Good choice. The nut creams are my favorite." Then he reached out with the teapot cupped in his hands and nudged the edge of the box, tipping his head to one side. "Do you want one, Cas?"

Castiel wasn't sure what he wanted. But he felt somehow that he wanted it very badly, perhaps more than he had ever wanted anything else.


	20. December 19

**December 19**

When Bobby had first heard that the Winchesters were going to be spending December house-sitting for a white-picket-fence family in Colorado, he'd barely been able to stop himself from looking around for the Candid Cameras. Over the last few weeks he'd gradually gotten used to the idea, helped along by occasional phone calls from Dean to bitch about life in suburbia, and more frequent status updates from Sam, who tended to pepper his news about bell-collecting and what Dean else had broken with questions Bobby couldn't answer, like how to make a quiche. Bobby had mostly left them to it and let the boys call him on their own time, because Dean had a tendency to go on and there was only so much bitching he could take; but today he was the one dialing as he stood at his kitchen window looking out over the junkyard, half-hidden under a crust of hard snow.

The phone rang three times before there was the click, and then a familiar voice came on, garbled in a way Bobby had long learned meant Dean was talking with his mouth full. "Gerber Family House of Horrors," Dean sang out, crunching something between his teeth. "Can I interest you in an ugly Christmas sweater?"

"Dean?" Bobby asked. He glanced reflexively down at the cordless phone, though there was no display for the numbers he'd dialed. "Thought I called Sam."

Dean snorted into the phone, and then choked a little, which Bobby assumed meant the idiot had inhaled whatever he was eating. "Oh, you did," Dean told him, once he was breathing steady again. "But he's busy in the kitchen, doting on Cas again, so you get me."

Bobby rolled his eyes at the ceiling, even though Dean couldn't see him. He wasn't really surprised to hear that, and wasn't sure why it still got Dean's goat after all this time—Bobby didn't know what he'd interrupted when he stepped back into the kitchen on Thanksgiving, but it hadn't been a debate about college basketball, anyway. Suffice to say, he hadn't been shocked when most of Sam's anecdotes had a lot of the clueless angel in them, though he doubted Sam had noticed himself. But whatever that was and wherever it was going, his more immediate problem was that he recognized the older Winchester's tone, half indignant and half wounded, as the beginning of some good old-fashioned pissing and moaning, and he didn't have time for that today—he still had to shovel his car out and go grocery shopping before the sun dropped and everything iced over again. Better to divert from that before Dean got started.

"What are they doing in the kitchen?" Bobby asked, leaning one hand on his own counter. Dean huffed and gave another crunch—Bobby was leaning toward chips as the snack of choice.

"I don't know. Making burritos or something. Does it matter? If you just called to share meal planning tips I'm gonna hang up—I finally found something good on TV, even if they did cut out all the nudity."

"No, you idiot," Bobby shot back, running his fingers over the stack of notes next to him on the counter. "I called about Sam's email a few days ago—the locket and everything. I've got some information about Dolores Underwood."

"Oh." Bobby could hear furniture creaking, Dean sitting up straighter, and a crinkle of cellophane as the chip bag was set aside. "So, what's the deal? Anything good?"

Typical Winchester—skipping right to the results without so much as a thank-you—but Bobby let it go, absently ruffling the edges of his notes as he shook his head. "Well, first of all, I oughta smack you both," he started. "I don't know who dropped the ball or what you were drinking when you should have been learning this, but—"

"Hold up a sec," Dean broke in. "Is this gonna be a lecture?"

Bobby raised his eyebrows at his reflection in the kitchen window. "Part of it is."

"Huh." Then Dean was shouting, the phone clearly held away from him because his voice wasn't quite earsplitting. "Yo, Betty Crocker! Take your apron off and get over here—Bobby's gotta talk to you!"

"No, Dean, I can't—I just…" For a minute there was nothing intelligible on the line, just snatches of voices back and forth, a typical Winchester squabble; Bobby looked out the window and rolled his eyes at the afternoon sun. He still had probably two hours before it went down for good, but sometimes, with the Winchesters, two hours wasn't nearly enough. There was a shuffling sound, and then Sam's voice was coming through the earpiece, sounding more than a little breathless. "Hey, Bobby. Sorry. Dean's a dick, and my hands are covered in tomatoes." Then more distantly, as if Sam had turned his head away: "Um, hang on, Cas. Don't put the onions in yet."

Castiel's voice was robot flat. "It has been four minutes, Sam."

Bobby could hear Sam's sigh right through the phone. "I know. But the meat doesn't look…cooked yet, so let's give it a few more minutes, okay?" Castiel didn't respond that Bobby could hear, but the older hunter assumed the angel had backed off, because Sam's voice came back to him a minute later, sounding, if possible, even more stressed. "Sorry," Sam repeated. "Things are just kind of crazy here today."

"What are you boys doing over there?" Bobby couldn't help asking. Sam's answer was half a laugh and more than half a sigh.

"Um…" His voice was pitched up, a tone Bobby recognized easily from the days when he could lift both boys by their collars, when Sam and (mostly) Dean would get into trouble at his house and then Sam, the public defender even from a young age, would try to make whatever they'd been doing—whether it was shooting out windows in the wrecked cars or rafting down the creek on big chunks of plywood—sound a little less harebrained. He could almost see Sam rubbing the back of his neck—or maybe not, if he had tomatoes all over his hands. "Mrs. Gerber left the ingredients for a stir-fry, and this is the last day they'll be good. It's not quite as easy as the recipe card made it sound. But that's not—anyway, what did you need?"

"It's what _you_ need," Bobby replied, shaking his head. "I got your information about Dolores Underwood. Recognized that name as soon as you sent it to me. Actually, I'm appalled you didn't."

"Why? Who was she?" Sam asked. Bobby thought he could hear something sizzling in the background, and he just hoped it was supposed to be doing that.

"She was a hunter. Pretty famous one, too. Cropped up a little while after Samuel Colt died. Made her bones taking down some nasty demons—I'm talking the massacre a town and lick the bones clean crowd."

"Wow. Okay, now the onions." Bobby blinked before he realized that wasn't directed at him, and then he rolled his eyes, wondering how much of this Sam was really getting. On the other side of the phone, the younger Winchester cleared his throat. "So how did Dolores's bones end up under our church with the handbells? Oh, wait—crap. That's the doorbell. Dean, will you get it? Dean, come on…ugh, you're such an asshole," Sam muttered. Then suddenly his voice was higher, and Bobby could just imagine that boy biting his lip. "Hey, um, Cas? Would you mind getting the door again? Just—just figure out what they want, okay? I'll be down in a sec."

Bobby squinted out the window, watching a V of geese cross the sky on their way south. "Do you need me to call back later?" he asked.

"No, no—it's fine. Sorry. Um…so, Dolores. You think she was on a hunt?"

"Well, I figured you'd ask that. I did a little digging," Bobby replied, fingering his notes again. Old scraps of information copied out of yellowed books and records in his cramped handwriting—they didn't do justice to the dark circles under his eyes, but he'd gotten what he could. "Dolores pops up in a few records through the early 1900s—picture in a newspaper here and there, looks like she was on trial for murder once and skipped town—anyway, it all goes dark in 1909, right before your Mary-Margaret Constance shows up at the Church of the Sacred Messiah. Seems a little coincidental to me."

"You think they were the same person?" Sam extrapolated. "That makes sense. Four nuns died in the months before the bells and Mary-Margaret went missing—maybe she was on a job, hunting something at the church."

"Your guess is as good as mine," Bobby said. "But I think I might've worked out something about those bells, if you're interested."

For a moment any answer Sam might have made gave way to the sound of high-pitched voices—a high school girl, maybe, and something that sounded like a shrew, probably her mother. Bobby heard their voices peaked in confusion, and more distinctly, Castiel's low tone insisting, "We did not order a wreath"—then the voices drew back, and Bobby assumed that Sam had poked his head out of the kitchen for a second to monitor the door situation and then popped back again, not willing to talk demons and old bones in front of the whole neighborhood. Bobby shook his head. There was a reason most hunters lived in the middle of nowhere—or, in his case, parked enough junk cars in the yard to scare civilian salesfolks away. Though it did mean he had to buy his Girl Scout cookies at the grocery store.

"Dean, would you go help him?" Sam was hissing, his voice pitched low either to keep it from the door crowd or because he was just pissed. "It's Mrs. Marenka from across the street again. I think the Gerbers bought this wreath from them—the daughter said something about fundraising for her choir. Cas is dying down there."

Dean's chuckle was no less obnoxious over the phone, it turned out. "No can do, Sammy. This is the most entertainment I've had all day. If you want to bail him out so bad, you can go down there—you and your tomato carnage."

"I'm talking to—" A frustrated sigh seemed to indicate Sam giving up on wrangling anything out of his brother, and Bobby heard footsteps on a wood floor, probably Sam retreating to the kitchen again. "Sorry, Bobby. I guess I'd better wrap this up. What, um—what about the bells?"

Bobby hated giving his reports in bite-sized pieces—the work he did deserved better than that, and everybody always just called back later, wanting the rest of the details. But he decided to let it slide this time, since Sam clearly had his hands full. He boiled what he had down to the short version. "I don't think those bells just came in contact with a demon. I think Dolores Underwood sealed something inside them—a big, bad demon something—and died doing it."

For the first time in the whole conversation, Bobby felt like he had Sam's full attention, the younger Winchester's voice taking on his distant, thoughtful tone. "That's why they've been attracting so much poltergeist energy. It's not just demon residue—those things are constantly sending out waves of demon energy. It's like an all-you-can-eat buffet. The longer it takes us to find the bells, the worse the poltergeist energy around them is going to get."

"Worse than that—it means whatever's trapped in those bells has a chance of getting out, if the seals break," Bobby said. He shook his head once, a little less gung-ho all of a sudden to step out into the cold, even though the sun was still up. "You boys better be careful how you handle those bells."

"We will, Bobby," Sam promised. Then there was a bang, like a door closing, and Bobby felt Sam's attention shift again, the young man clearing his throat. "Cas, um—what's with all the wreaths?"

"They would not leave until I agreed to keep them." Castiel's voice was quiet, far from the phone, but Bobby thought he could hear some irritation in it all the same. "What will we do with seven wreaths, Sam?"

"Um…" Sam breathed in, quick, and then his voice got louder again, as if he'd tucked back toward the phone. "Hey, Bobby, I think I'd better go—I think I've already burned this stir-fry beyond recognition. Was there anything else?"

"No, that's it." Bobby picked up his notes and curled them into a loose cylinder, batting the pages against his empty palm. "If you find out anything else, send it along—I'll keep digging from this side. And hey, Sam? I'm serious. You two get in too deep, you pull out, or at least give me a call. You got that?"

"Got it," Sam said, but somehow Bobby doubted he really did. Especially since the next words out of the boy's mouth were, "Hey, Bobby, you need a wreath?"

Bobby glanced over his shoulder at the front hallway and rolled his eyes. "Already got one. The sheriff's niece was selling them, raising money for her ski team."

"Why's everybody selling wreaths?" Sam muttered into the phone.

Bobby couldn't help a chuckle. "Don't know. But you're on your own. Good luck with the stir-fry."

"Thanks," Sam said, and then hung up.

Bobby pulled the phone away from his ear. For a long time he stared at the cordless handset, his mind six hundred miles southwest, his hand tight around the pages of his notes—then he shook his head and dropped the phone back in its cradle, pulling a knit hat down over his ears. That car wasn't going to dig itself out, and the Winchesters were plenty capable, especially with an angel at their backs. And just in case they did need a rescue—well, he wasn't going to be much help without a car. He grabbed the snow shovel and slammed the front door behind him.


	21. December 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special Note: One of my personal favorite chapters. I hope you all enjoy.

**December 20  
**

Sam tapped nervous fingers against the rim of the black leather steering wheel, negotiating the Gerbers' minivan through late afternoon traffic. From the passenger seat beside him, Castiel watched the movement of the young man's feet, darting from the gas pedal to the brake, the vehicle jerking as Sam inched as close to the car in front of them as he dared and then backed off again, practicality and impatience warring in the stiffness of his white knuckles. A yellow light turned red abruptly and Sam slammed his foot down, their bodies lurching forward against their seatbelts as the car stopped too fast; Sam shot Castiel an apologetic smile, but his attention was focused on the road, his forehead furrowing as his fingers brushed the cell phone tucked into a cup holder. Castiel glanced at the silent phone before turning back to the passenger window, staring through the blue sweater and white scarf his reflection was wearing in the thick glass.

He and Sam had spent the afternoon at a holiday sale at a large department store, one whose logo was a star instead of a bull's-eye, searching for any sign of a bell around the store's thirty-foot Christmas tree decorated in red and gold. Castiel had been wary of doing any further shopping, but Sam hadn't tried to nudge him toward the dressing room once, only buying Castiel the white scarf when a security guard started tracking them through the store, perhaps curious why two men were walking circles around the Christmas tree. They had been completing their purchase at the register when Sam's phone buzzed in his pocket.

"Sam. We're idiots. Well, you're an idiot. I'm a genius. I have the answer to all our problems."

Dean's voice had been loud enough that Castiel could hear it through the phone as Sam cradled the device with his shoulder and finished counting out his cash. He waved off the bag the store attendant offered him and wrapped the scarf absentmindedly around Castiel's neck as he led the way to the door. "What problems?" Sam asked as the automatic doors swung open for them.

"Our bell problems!" Castiel could hear Dean's derision all the way through the phone, and it distracted him from fiddling with the tag still attached to his scarf. Remembering Sam's instructions about tags, he pushed it over his shoulder so that it hung in the back, and then followed Sam out onto the well-shoveled sidewalk. Dean's voice crackled in the chill air. "Here's what we do. We go back to the church, we get down there where the bones are, and we summon the crap out of Dolores Underwood. Then she tells us where the rest of the bells are and boom, done—just like that."

Sam's eyes had whipped up to find Castiel's, his features already worried as he pressed his free hand against his ear. "What? Dean, no—are you crazy? That church is…"

Castiel hadn't heard much more of the argument. Cars rolled past the front of the store one after the other, and they made it difficult to decipher what the older Winchester was saying; Sam never seemed to get out more than his brother's name or a few fragmented words before he broke off, presumably interrupted by the voice on the other side of the phone. It was only a minute or two before Sam was jerking the phone away from his ear and staring at the screen, the way Castiel had often seen him do when Dean hung up on him.

"Dean…Dean!" Sam tried once more, though the screen was already fading to black. When he looked up at Castiel, his expression was pinched, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he rifled through his jacket pocket for his keys. "Crap. We have to get over there before he does anything stupid and gets himself killed or possessed, or…worse."

Castiel had agreed. But the streets were snarled with slow-moving traffic, and they made their way across town at a crawl, Sam murmuring regrets about not learning alternate routes through the city under his breath. He had tried twice to call Dean, but the older Winchester had not picked up. Sam's jaw clenched as his brother's answering machine clicked on, Dean's voice tinny through the phone speaker, and he hit the button marked with a red phone before dropping it back into the cup holder, tightening his hands around the steering wheel. Castiel watched his shifting expression but was not sure what to say, so they made the rest of the drive in silence.

Dean had already arrived when Sam parked the van in front of a house just down the street from the church. The older hunter was bent double digging in the Impala's trunk, a canvas bag dangling from one of his hands on a long black strap, but he looked up as Sam clambered from the driver's seat and shut his door with a snap, his long legs closing the distance between the two cars in only a few strides. Castiel followed a step behind him, studying the façade of the church. It looked the same, windows dark and a thick layer of ice coating the front steps, but there was something different that he could not quite place, a strangeness that tugged at his focus and locked his blue eyes on the warping wood of the double doors. Something about the church felt familiar to him in a way that it had not the week before. Sam's voice distracted him before he could pinpoint what it was.

"Dean—what the hell, man? I was calling you."

Dean rolled his eyes as he stuffed a long reel of white cloth into the canvas bag. "Yeah. And I didn't pick up, because I didn't feel like getting my ear bitched off. Apparently there's no getting out of that." His green eyes tracked Castiel as he stepped up behind Sam, and then dropped back to the trunk, where he was working a box of thick matches out from under a few shotguns. "Look, I said you could just keep going with your shopping spree if you weren't on board. I can do this without you."

Sam scoffed, his arms folding over his chest. "No, Dean—I'm not going to let you go solo on this. That would be even stupider and more dangerous than what you're planning to do right now. I'm just saying that—"

"Yeah, yeah—I got it," Dean broke in, straightening from the trunk and slamming it closed. His eyes snapped between the two of them as he rested one hand on the slope of the Impala, the black paint fogging around the warmth of his skin on the cold metal. "Mega evil, big risk. Your concerns have been noted, okay? No worries—you're officially the loser little brother in horror movies who never wants to go into the haunted house because he's chickenshit, and I will be there to save your ass when and if that becomes necessary."

Sam's expression tightened as Dean talked—Castiel wasn't sure if it was the rising volume of his brother's voice or the step Dean took forward until he and Sam were toe to toe, exchanging stares. For a moment Castiel wondered if Sam would surrender, as he had so often seen him do in arguments with Dean; but then Sam shook his head and dropped his arms, one hand pausing to rub his temples before falling back to his side.

"I don't want my concerns _noted_ , Dean," he said pointedly. "I want them addressed. I want you to acknowledge the fact that you have no idea what's going to happen if you perform a summoning ritual in a church where five nuns died, not to mention the poltergeist and the fact that this place was home to a seriously bad demon for over a century."

Dean shrugged under his leather coat. "I don't see that we've got another choice, Sam. If Bobby's right and the demon is actually sealed in these bells, we are utterly screwed if we don't track them down, and unless you are seriously burying the lede right now, seems like you guys didn't find anything while you were out scarf-shopping." Castiel glanced down at the white scarf around his neck and Sam pressed his lips together, but he didn't answer, and after a moment Dean went on, tilting his head mockingly to one side. "Yeah. Thought so. Which means we're three days bell-less. I don't know about you, but I can't take being stuck in this hippie town hunting bells for much longer. The sooner we finish this crap, the sooner we can put that two-story prison in the rearview mirror and never look back. Right?"

Sam looked down at his feet. Dean's voice had grown more intense as he spoke, a harshness creeping into the words that Castiel had not heard in some time, a brutalizing power that always reminded him of the pit and the flail; it was in his eyes as Dean stared at his brother, and then at the angel, daring them in turn to disagree. Castiel frowned as he remembered Sam standing in the kitchen, his hands full of cookie dough. Then Dean took a step back and slung the strap of the canvas bag over his shoulder, dipping his head in one biting nod.

"Right. Besides—if Dolores Underwood is really some badass hunter chick like Bobby said, she should be eager to help us out."

"She may not be able to," Castiel told him. Dean's sharp eyes shot back to him, but the angel only tipped his head, returning his stare evenly. "When I touched her bones, I felt that very little of her soul remained. Even if you are able to summon her, it's unlikely she will be capable of telling you what you want to know."

Dean scoffed and adjusted the bag strap on his shoulder. "Yeah, well, excuse me if I don't feel like taking advice from the guy who voted not to come here in the first place. Now are you girls gonna wait in the car talking about your feelings, or are you gonna come inside and help me clean up this mess?" He didn't wait for an answer before turning away and moving across the road with stiff, determined steps, each footfall breaking the ice brittle as fish bones between the cracks in the pavement.

Castiel looked up at Sam. The young man's eyes were still on the tips of his dark brown shoes, the only part of his clothing that Castiel remembered from before December, before the racks of the department store and a package of checkered pajamas. The angel lifted a hand to brush his shoulder.

"Sam," he said.

Sam breathed in hard, blinking as his gaze lifted to meet Castiel's. His lips twitched into a thin smile. "Better not let him get too far ahead," he murmured. Then he turned to follow his brother's path across the street, hands shoved down in his pockets. Castiel followed in the trail of his lengthening shadow.

He had almost forgotten how strange the church had felt to him by the time they crossed the threshold—but the instant they stepped into the chill of the broken interior, Castiel understood what he had felt, and he stopped abruptly, his hands clenching into wary fists. The demonic energy was gone. It had been so strong, when they first came to the church, that he had felt it almost as a physical sensation, something slick like oil hanging in the air of this once sacred place, so far from sacred now that it felt more like Hell than the world of man. It had made him angry, or something close, to see what such evil had done to a house of worship, to sense the darkness that had taken root here so deeply that it had breached the walls. But it was gone now, utterly eradicated, not the slightest taint of demonic presence lingering in the shadows of the church. In its absence, the air felt stale, as if the entire structure had been sterilized. Castiel halted at the mouth of the center aisle, staring down the rows of ruined pews. He was surprised to find that Sam had stopped as well.

"Whoa." Sam's voice was barely a whisper, but the word echoed in the silent church, pulling two sets of eyes to his face. Sam's shoulders hunched up toward his ears as he pushed his hands deeper into his pockets. "What happened here? This place feels…completely different."

Dean had paused a few steps farther down the aisle, glancing back over his shoulder to study his brother—but at Sam's words, he rolled his eyes, hefting the canvas bag higher on his shoulder. "Yeah. Nice try, Sammy. That fake psychic crap isn't going to stop me this time."

"No, Dean—listen to me." Sam's tone was growing more urgent, and as Castiel watched his eyes flickered from his brother to the cracked rafters sagging over their heads, as if waiting for the roof to tumble down on them at any moment. Sam brushed a hand through his hair as his gaze dropped back to Dean. "You remember how I said there was serious poltergeist energy all over this place?"

Dean leaned one hand on the back of a pew, though Castiel noticed his eyes skimmed the dark curving wood before trusting his fingers to it. "Yeah, I seem to remember something about you playing chicken with a shit-ton of broken glass."

"Well…it's gone," Sam said, his hands flopping against his sides. "All of it. I can't feel…anything at all anymore."

"The demonic energy is gone as well," Castiel said. He stepped forward until he was even with Sam, and considered, for a moment, wrapping his fingers around the hand lingering against Sam's jacket pocket, over the lump of the smallest bell; but Sam's expression was worried, off balance, and in the end he refrained, wary of upsetting him further. Dean took a step toward them both and raised one finger.

"Okay—hold on a sec, John Edward and Jennifer Love Hewitt. Gone how? Poltergeists are nasty, territorial fuckers—they don't go anywhere without putting up a serious fight."

"I know," Sam replied with a shrug. "But I'm telling you, man—it's just gone. Last time, I felt all this malice and spite and…hatred here, and now it just feels…dead."

"Surprising that you can sense that," a deep voice mused from the direction of the apse. Castiel's wings were suddenly open, bristling at his back as he stared into the shadows at the far end of the church—then his eyes narrowed as a dark-skinned figure ducked the fallen crucifix and stepped out into the thin light, a smirk curling his lips. "Or perhaps, not so surprising—you aren't exactly normal, after all, are you, Sam Winchester?"

Sam tensed at his side. Castiel stared back into unfathomably dark eyes. "Uriel," he said. Uriel's lips twitched.

"Castiel," he greeted mildly. "It's been a while. I see you've redecorated."

Castiel glanced down at himself; he had almost forgotten that he didn't look as he always had, that the familiar suit and trench coat had been replaced by black pants and a blue sweater, and the white scarf Sam had wound around his neck. He looked up at Uriel again, remembering the last time he had stood opposite his brother angel, the slow burn of anger in those impenetrably dark eyes before Uriel had at last submitted, accepted his reprimand, and his gaze had dropped to the ground, his grace unsteady as flame within him—the mark that grace had left on Sam's forearm, a seared handprint from a grip so tight it had damaged the bone. Sam seemed to remember it, too; his right hand had strayed up to hold his left, gripping his arm where the brand had been. Castiel felt his wings twitch behind him.

"Uriel," he repeated, watching the way his subordinate's own wings flickered at the name on his tongue. Castiel narrowed his eyes. "What are you—"

"No, you know what? Fuck that," Dean broke in. His voice was angry, his face twisted in a snarl as he took a step toward the front of the church and swept his arm at the dark-skinned angel. "No fucking way. You get the fuck out of here before I come up there and make you."

Uriel tipped his head, a small smile touching his lips as his eyes surveyed the broken altar. "Colorful, if completely delusional. Though of course I would thoroughly enjoy watching you try." Castiel felt a flicker of impatience run through his grace, and Uriel's eyes came back to him, the smile disappearing from his face as they exchanged stares. "Unfortunately, I'm here on more important business. I bring a message, Castiel—and a warning."

His voice twisted around the last word; Castiel had spent long enough in the company of humans now that he recognized it as derision. It wasn't an emotion angels were allowed, but it didn't surprise him, because he remembered saying that exact word to Uriel before he raised his wings and disappeared back to the Winchesters, to tend to the burn of a powerful hand, and Uriel had always had a temper. His behavior was inappropriate, but what mattered was his obedience. Castiel held his eyes.

"What is your message?" he asked simply.

Uriel sighed, taking a few steps down from the altar until he stood on the floor of the nave. "All this time among humans, Castiel, and you still haven't learned to listen to a story. What is a message without context?" Castiel just watched him silently, and after a moment Uriel shrugged, one shoulder rolling up beneath the fabric of his heavy black suit. "Very well. I just thought you might be interested to know that this morning I was dispatched to ferry a human soul to the other side—a pious soul that had been trapped beneath this church for a very long time."

Castiel blinked. "The saint," he said softly. Suddenly he understood why the sterility of the church seemed so familiar—it was the same emptiness he had felt in the craters of cities Uriel had been sent to smite from time to time, the absolute obliteration of even the essence of whatever evil had warranted the destruction in the first place. Uriel smirked.

"Yes. Though there was so little left of her, I almost expected her to degrade along the way. Then I did some cleaning up, as long as I was here. You left quite a mess—the price of being powerless at the moment, I suppose."

Castiel felt his grace building inside of him, a dull glow to remind Uriel that the power he had called on when he _warned_ the other angel away from Sam Winchester was still very much his—but Sam spoke before he could, the tall hunter squaring his shoulders as he took a deep breath.

"You did this," Sam said. "You got rid of the demonic energy, the poltergeist—all of it." His voice was soft and slightly wary, as if he doubted any action taken by the dark-skinned angel—but Uriel only took another step forward, the wood of splintered pews cracking under his feet.

"Feeling lonely, Sam? A little less at home without that familiar smell of brimstone?"

Sam flinched, and Castiel felt one wing snapping taut across his back—it flashed behind Sam and then curled around into the space between him and Uriel, and hovered there, the feathers crackling with grace and warning. For an instant, Uriel drew back. Then his eyes found Castiel's, and he tipped his head, incredulity and scorn clear on his features. Castiel knew for certain in that moment that the soldiers of God had never wrapped their wings around man, and that Uriel would never so much as consider it. The dark-skinned angel shook his head.

"I apologize, Castiel," he murmured, glancing at Sam's hand where it still gripped his arm. Castiel's wing twitched. "I wasn't trying to upset anyone," Uriel finished.

Castiel felt himself frown—but Dean had always been quicker, and he was apparently tired of waiting for answers. "You know what? Fuck you and your forked tongue," Dean snapped. He couldn't see Uriel's wings flare at the insult, but Castiel could, and he cautioned the other angel to let it go with his eyes. "Enough small talk. You said you had a message." Dean lifted his hands in an exaggerated shrug. "Well, you screwed our summoning idea straight to hell, so let's have it—what's the big report?"

"The host has figured out what demon is sealed within these bells," Uriel replied. His eyes flickered from Dean to Castiel and back, eyebrows lifting in invitation. "Would you like to know what it is?"

Dean worked his tongue against his cheek. "Not if it means talking to you for another five minutes."

For a moment, Uriel said nothing, only regarding Dean through dark, narrowed eyes. Then he started down the stone aisle with long, slow strides, stopping only as he drew even with Dean on the ragged red of the threadbare carpet. "You're very entitled, for a species that only crawled out of the mud a few millennia ago," he told him.

"You're a pretty big dick for a guy with no balls," Dean shot back, his muscles tight under his leather jacket. "Spit it out."

Uriel's lips pulled into a sneer. "Perhaps it would be better to show you. Here, Sam—catch."

Before Castiel realized what he intended, Uriel lifted his hand and released something, a spark of gold that hurtled toward Sam end over end. Sam raised his hands automatically to catch it, but the second he did he hissed and dropped it again, pulling his hands away as if in pain. He stumbled backward and Castiel caught him with an arm around his waist, and then reached out to catch the object, too, surprised to find a heavy golden bell resting in his palm. In the instant before his grace suppressed the demon taint that had made Sam flinch, he caught a glimpse of a shadow stretching away from the bell, the arc of scaled wings and ragged fur around a gaping black mouth—then the shadow vanished into the bell and Castiel's eyes snapped up, outrage blazing like a flash fire within him.

"Uriel!" he barked. His anger shivered in his wings, and as his feathers flared the last shards tumbled from the stained-glass windows, smashing into fragments on the floor. "You weakened the seal on the bell."

"Momentarily," Uriel said.

"Unacceptable," Castiel snapped. "Sam could have been gravely injured. You have been warned," he finished, his wings flashing at his back.

Sam was staring at his hands. Castiel wished he could pause to check what the bell had done to them, or take them in his and turn them away from Sam, as he had beneath the church, hold them closely and stare into those wide hazel eyes until Sam's breathing was steady in his chest again. But he could do nothing but tighten his arm around the young man's waist, because Uriel was smirking at him, his grace ebbing and flowing within him in some unreadable emotion, and in his sweater Castiel did not even have a pocket to slip the bell into, had no choice but to keep it in his hand. And Dean had lost his temper, grabbing Uriel by the lapels of his suit and yanking them face to face.

"You son of a bitch," Dean growled. "I'm gonna rip your fucking wings off—"

Suddenly there was no sound from Dean except for a low choking, and the older Winchester dropped his grip, reeling back from Uriel clutching his throat. Castiel's rage flared in his chest. "Uriel!" he snapped again.

Uriel glanced at him, and then at Dean, and the hunter's throat opened with a gasp, Dean bending almost double with a fit of coughing. Sam slipped out of his hold, but Castiel only distantly registered him wrestling Dean into a pew and then kneeling down beside him, urging his brother to breathe—his attention was fixed on Uriel, narrowed blue eyes staring back into pits so dark they were almost black.

"Enough," Castiel whispered in his true voice. It was barely a shadow of sound, but still it sent a shiver through the stone floor, rattling all the fragments of broken glass. "Your business is with me."

"Then keep your pets on a shorter leash," Uriel hissed. A moment later he had recoiled, his wings drawing back to rest behind his shoulders as he lifted his hands in placation. "No. My mistake. I only meant to show you the creature sealed within the bells. Did you recognize him, Castiel?" Castiel frowned, searching his infinite knowledge for a shadow mouth of jagged black teeth; but Uriel only chuckled, a shrug rolling through his borrowed form. "Not surprising. It has been quite some time. After all, the Flayed Dog spent the last century buried beneath this church, sealed by a saint."

Castiel felt his eyes widen in understanding. In a pew away to his left, Dean cleared his throat and sat up straighter against the wood, still rubbing his neck. "The flayed what?" he croaked. Sam was still kneeling next to him, one hand on Dean's leg and the other open in front of him, as if the fingers were too ginger to clench—Castiel tightened his grip around the bell and fought down the urge to crush it to dust.

"Archosias," he said, almost to himself.

"One of the many monsters who crawl on their bellies beside Satan's throne," Uriel echoed. "He takes the form of a great wolf with the wings of a griffin, when he walks beyond Hell. Filthy half-breed," he added under his breath. Sam flinched and Castiel's wings stiffened at his back, but Uriel only raised an eyebrow. "The demon," he said softly. "Mangy creature. Sickening to look at, because he has been flayed almost to the bone, only patches of fur clinging to the skin around his black jaws."

"Whoa, whoa—flayed by who?" Dean demanded, a little of the old fire returning to his tone.

"It was a punishment," Castiel answered, staring down at the bell in his palm. "For daring to thieve from Satan's table. Satan took his repayment in flesh, a pound for every pound Archosias stole—but the demon's jaws are wide, and he had swallowed much, and by the time the debt was paid, very little was left of him." His gaze flickered up to find Uriel's, though when he spoke it was to the Winchesters, as he watched them fidget out of the corner of his eye. "He is malicious and spiteful, and eternally hungry, and he is very, very powerful."

"You understand why Heaven wanted me to pass a message to you." Uriel stepped forward until he was close enough that Castiel could pick out the line between his pupils and his dark irises, their shoes nearly touching on the faded carpet. It did not escape Castiel's notice that Uriel stepped around the presence of his wing. "Archosias is stronger than you, Castiel," Uriel told him, his eyes tracking to the wings behind his superior as they flickered once. "He is stronger than me. At full strength, it would take a holy army to return him to Hell. He is sealed, for now, his power cut into twelve pieces. But if you fail to retrieve all the bells and the seal breaks, you will not be nearly enough to stop him."

"I will not allow that to happen," Castiel said. He glanced down at the bell, a heavy curve of middle tone, and then up at Uriel again, frowning. "Where did you acquire this?" he asked, tightening his grip on the ancient leather strap.

Uriel smirked. "Under the ice of the wishing pond, outside the public library." Castiel blinked and watched the other angel's expression widen to a full smile, something dangerously close to pride touching the corners of his lips. "There wasn't much left of the saint, but she was desperate to tell me the locations of the last three bells. Unfortunately, her mind was jumbled, and most of the words meaningless. But I did manage to solve one riddle. Consider it a gift."

"You know what would be a real gift?" Dean spoke up from the pew. Castiel turned to see that the older Winchester had pushed himself to his feet and pulled Sam up with him, their faces grave as they stood staring at the dark-skinned angel. Sam had one hand braced against the finial, but the other, his left, was buried in the fabric of his coat. Castiel pressed his lips together as Dean raked a hand through his hair. "How about you just tell us where the last two bells are," he suggested, shrugging far too casually for the sharpness of his eyes. "We'll lock this thing down and get Archon or whatever out of your hair before mass amounts of people have to die."

Uriel exhaled into a chuckle and cocked his head to one side. "If I had all the answers, do you think I would have wasted all this time drilling the facts of the situation into your thick little skull? As I said, she was…unstable. You're awfully weak creatures without your bodies to hold your souls in. Even those of you with pure souls," he finished, glancing at Sam. The younger Winchester didn't seem to notice.

"Well, you know what, Uriel?" Dean shot back. "You gave us the bell and the message—so how about fuck you very much, and you get your feathered ass out of here?"

Sam was still clinging to the pew. Castiel found he was having difficulty focusing on anything besides the white knuckles of the young man's hand, or the line of sweat making its way down from his brow, skirting the edge of his ear before it disappeared into his collar. He almost missed the flare of Uriel's grace as his brother angel turned away and walked back down the aisle, crushing flickers of stained glass under his black-soled shoes.

"I gave you the message. I still haven't given you the warning." A crack of thunder filled the sky above the church, incongruous with the thin snow clouds overhead; Castiel recognized it for what it was, a summons from Heaven, and Uriel stopped, turning back to face them with a small, deliberate smile. "Well. Seems I'm out of time, so I'll be brief. The saint was confused about a great deal, but she was very clear about one thing: the bells must be collected by midnight on the 25th of December, before the twelfth chime announcing the beginning of Christmas Day, or the seals will break and Archosias will be released in all his wickedness."

Castiel felt his brow furrow, but Dean was more vocal, as usual, taking a few angry steps down the aisle after the dark-skinned angel. "What the fuck is this, Cinderella? Nobody told us there was a time limit! The hell happens at midnight on Christmas?"

"The bells were forged on Christmas Eve in 1902, and finished at the stroke of midnight," Uriel said. "In this church, they were rung in the midnight mass bell choir for Christmas every year as the clock struck twelve. And Dolores Underwood sealed Archosias beneath this church at exactly midnight on Christmas in 1910." Uriel's dark eyes bored into Castiel's, his eyebrows lifting as he gave a miniscule shrug. "Twelve bells. Twenty-four days. Twelve chimes at the twelfth hour. The seals are weakening, Castiel, a little at a time. There is no mistaking when they will fail."

Thunder rolled through the sky again, shaking dust down from the rafters. Dean glanced up at the cracks in the ceiling. Then he shook his head and pinned Uriel's gaze again, staring heedlessly back into the angel's dark eyes.

"Fine—you know what? Go ahead. Up the stakes. Two bells in four days? Piece of cake."

Uriel smirked. "Tick tock," he said. Then the angel was suddenly gone, the wind of his wings sending a swirl of dust through the hollow church; Castiel felt the thunder ebbing in the folds of Heaven, the archangels appeased by the answer to their summons. Slowly he drew his wings behind his back once more, the metal of the bell cold against his hand. Then he glanced across the aisle and caught Sam's eyes, wondering what thoughts were spinning behind his solemn expression. Dean reached out with his foot and crushed a piece of stained glass into the carpet.

"Piece of cake," he repeated, nodding shortly. But as Castiel stared down at his warped reflection in the surface of the bell, he found himself unsettled, and he doubted he was the only one.


	22. December 21

**December 21  
**

Sam sat at a corner table in the library, looking out a huge floor-to-ceiling window at the gray, overcast sky above. The Boulder Public Library was a huge building with a tall glass structure over its entrance and an abundance of windows that looked out over parks and benches. There was even a huge bridge structure within the building, dotted with tables and chairs that spanned a small creek and walking path. Normally it was the kind of place Sam loved, but not today.

Sam flipped the heavy book he had stretched in front of him shut and reached his hands up to dig his fingers into his temples, trying to relieve the pain. He let his hands slide down a moment later, landing bonelessly on the table in front of him. There were a few scrapes from the rocks under the church, and the small scar left behind when the two black stitches came out of his wrist, but nothing else. He forced his eyes to focus on the unmarred skin, trying to force the other images away.

When Uriel had thrown the bell and Sam's hand had wrapped compulsively around it, he had been certain it had burned him, maybe even branded him. But his palm had been clear—painful and stiff as though he had frozen it and then thawed it all at once, but without a single mark. Sam had tried to play the whole thing down, ignore it until it went away, and it had worked mostly, except…

His dreams the night before has been filled with glass teeth. Sometimes they were Uriel's and it was a hand wrapped around his arm, squeezing until the bones snapped—but then they would be black and dripping teeth, sunken into the splintered bone and swollen flesh of his arm. It was the detail of the dream that scared Sam the most, because wet, dripping teeth hadn't come up in the conversation between Castiel and Uriel, but it had come up in the old leather volume of demon lore that Sam had managed to dig up.

They had come to the library at the tall hunter's request. Sam had wanted to look up any human lore that existed on Archosias, to see if he could find out anything else useful about the sealing—or so he had told Cas and Dean that morning while forcing a cup of coffee and a small bowl of cereal into his stomach.

It had made him feel sick almost immediately; he still felt sick, and it was only getting worse. Especially because Sam hadn't found what he was looking for. There was a reference to a flayed dog whose flesh never healed and whose blood ran down his face to stain his teeth black, which only served to solidify Sam's suspicions. The black teeth in Sam's dream had been dripping the very first time those jaws smiled. Archosias had been in his nightmares since his arm had been pierced by the glass of the blue bottle so long ago.

Sam had woken from his dreams feeling raw and shaky, and he'd almost run to the bathroom to throw up right there, but then he realized that his brother was already awake, watching the TV muted with closed captions on, and Castiel was standing stiffly at the window, and so he'd just swallowed instead. Uriel made Dean so angry, and the truth was Sam had felt something like this once before, after the angel had left the brand on his arm. He didn't want his brother to do anything stupid on his behalf—or Castiel, for that matter. He had decided to just tough it out.

Sam rubbed his temples again, willing the gnawing pain to leave him alone, and then glanced back outside, focusing on the park this time. Dean had taken Cas to check out the wishing pond where Uriel claimed to have found the bell. It was slightly different than some of the locations they'd visited before, so Dean had theorized maybe there was something else that connected the places Dolores Underwood had left the bells.

Sam had been watching them off and on as he paged through a stack of books—watching the silent play of the pair walking around and around the little pond, squatting on the snow covered ground, and then Dean, inevitably, waving his hands as he yelled. They were gone now, leaving the park empty of people under the heavy clouds, and Sam realized he didn't know when he'd glanced at them last, or how long they'd been gone.

The tall hunter pulled himself up straighter in the chair, rubbing at his eyes, and scrubbing a hand through his limp hair. He moved the books around on the table in front of him, stacking them back into a pile carefully to return. He even managed to stretch his mouth into a smile as he heard the voices of his brother and the angel before he even saw the pair coming around the corner. He just had to last until they got home; then he could claim a headache or something and lie down.

"I'm just saying," Dean's voice announced at a volume highly inappropriate for the library, "if you were more like a robot, we could just feed you the data and input the parameters, and bingo—bell locations."

Sam winced a little, watching Castiel pin his brother with an unfriendly look, which Dean seemed completely immune to. The smile became slightly more real as he watched them fondly.

"Hey, guys," Sam greeted, picking up the stack of books and ignoring the feel on his skin like it was ripping under their weight. _Not a mark_ , he reminded himself. _Not a single mark._ "So." He launched into explanation as the pair came closer. "I couldn't find much, except for more bad news—a couple different sources refer to Archosias as having thirty legions of demons at his command, so we really don't want this guy out."

"Fan-fucking-tastic," Dean muttered sarcastically. His eyes rolled up but stopped on Sam, making the tall hunter swallow as his brother studied him with a pinched expression. "You feeling okay, Sammy?" he asked.

Sam winced, hoping his brother wouldn't choose this exact moment to suddenly stop being oblivious. His stomach curled in on itself, sending another wave of nausea crashing through him. Sam forced himself to remain totally still.

"Sure," he said offhand, setting the books on the return shelf. If he had been feeling better, he would have put them back himself. "I'm just hungry," Sam groused intentionally. "Probably cause I didn't pig out on kringle like somebody…" He patted his stomach twice, pulling his jacket off the back of the plastic chair where he had been sitting and shrugging it on.

Castiel was studying him intently, though Dean was now busy protesting the pig comment. The angel held out a hand as Sam walked forward to join them, and Sam ducked around it as casually as he could. He felt a wave of guilt that only increased the sudden stabbing in his abdomen as Castiel's hand remained frozen in the air for a moment—but Dean had apparently accepted his explanation, or at any rate been distracted enough by the idea of food to start heading toward the exit.

Sam couldn't explain it. Just, he had a feeling that if Cas touched him, he would be able to sense everything, and Sam didn't want that. He just wanted to ignore the pain until things were back to how they had been before Uriel.

Dean clapped a hand on Sam's back, dragging Castiel in with his other arm. "Man, I am raiding that fridge when we get back and making a monster sandwich," the hunter declared. Then he looked pointedly at his brother. "And with it, I'll have a side of kringle." Sam's stomach turned at the very thought of food.

"You're gonna get fat, man," he said. The words came out so calmly Sam wasn't even sure it was his own voice. The teeth were sticking jaggedly into his flesh again. _There's nothing there,_ he reminded himself, resisting the urge to rub his arm. _Not a mark, not a handprint._ Dean's answering shove felt like it tore a piece of skin from Sam's arm, but he turned a choke into a laugh. "What kind of sandwich do you want, Cas?" That same calm voice that sounded so much like his continued as they ducked out of the sliding glass-doors, heading for the parking lot.

The angel looked thoughtfully at Sam before answering, "Peanut butter and banana _._ " It was the sandwich that Sam had made for them when they had been snowed in, sharing it on the couch one bite at a time. The thought soothed the tall hunter a little bit, as did the cold bite of the wind, and the icy door handle of the Impala beneath his fingers.

Cas's comment also had the added bonus of launching his brother in a lecture about what made a good sandwich, and all the reasons peanut butter and banana would never qualify. Sam just let him talk, watching the snowy scenery go by with his forehead pressed against the cold glass. Every so often he made an inane comment to show he was listening, and glanced into the rearview mirror to meet Castiel's blue eyes. Part of Sam wanted to just throw himself at the angel, tell him everything and beg him for comfort—but Castiel would hold himself accountable if Uriel really had done something, and probably blame himself for not being able to use his powers, and really, it was just nightmares. And there was nothing there—absolutely nothing there.

His answers must not have been right, Sam decided as they pulled up to the Gerbers' house, because Dean was giving him that sharp look as they made their way to the heavy front door—the one that meant Dean simultaneously suspected something and was already mad about the outcome either way. Sam was sure of it once they got inside.

He stripped off his boots and headed for the kitchen, unable to keep from wrapping his arms around his middle at the overwhelming gingerbread smell. In the hallway he heard Dean telling Cas to get lost for a while, thankfully not followed by the sound of the front door opening. Sam really didn't want the angel gone—didn't even want him far. He was feeling sick enough that he wanted the hand back, but Castiel hadn't offered it again.

Now that he was standing, he wished he was sitting in the library again. Dean stalked into the kitchen, the shoes he hadn't taken off pounding on the tile. The hunter ran a critical eye over his brother, and Sam figured from the angry look he was getting that he must look pretty bad.

"It was that fucking angel, wasn't it?" Dean hissed venomously. Sam flinched. They both knew who he was talking about.

"It's just a headache," Sam protested, letting the counter hold up some of his weight.

"Don't lie to me, Sam," Dean warned. His voice was low, and he stalked forward until he was right in front of the tall hunter. Sam turned away, his guts twisting.

"It's really nothing…"

The final word hadn't even gotten out of his mouth when Dean's hand slammed down on the counter hard enough to upset a box of tea, sending it tumbling to the floor. The pain in Sam's head spiked at the loud noise, and suddenly it felt like it was his ears bleeding, his face being savaged, his arm being grabbed. He saw Uriel for a moment, smiling with dripping, jagged teeth.

Sam shook the thought away, meeting Dean's eyes. He wasn't sure what to say, how to keep from repeating what had happened the last time with Uriel. The tall hunter hadn't even opened his mouth when he saw the blazing anger melt away into concern.

"Sammy?" Dean said slowly, more softly. The unbridled worry and the nickname made the tall hunter try again pull himself together. They had a time limit with the bells now, so many more important things to worry about than the arm _without a single mark._

"I'm really okay," Sam said. The look on Dean's face only twisted into fear, and his brother closed the distance between them suddenly.

"Your nose is bleeding," he said. He glanced around, tearing a wad of paper towels from the roll and pushing them into Sam's hand.

Sam lifted his fingers to his face, staring in surprise as they came away covered in blood. Dean grabbed the hand he had forced the wad of paper towels into roughly, shoving it toward Sam's face. The tall hunter complied with the unspoken order, holding them against his skin with a certain detached horror. Because he could already feel the red liquid running from his chin, soaking into his shirt and dripping onto the floor. A tongue ran across wet black teeth, and Uriel held his arm with bone-crushing force while the white paper towels in his hand turned completely red, and the blood kept running.

He looked up slowly to meet his brother's panicked eyes as Dean turned, yelling for Castiel, and Sam wondered for the first time if maybe he wasn't okay at all.

 

.x.

Sam always took the longest fucking showers.

Sometimes Dean swore his brother did it just to piss him off, especially if he was covered in vamp blood or monster sick and really needed a rinse. The rest of the time Dean blamed the full bathing routine on Sam's flippy mop of girl hair, which needed shampooing and conditioning and moisturizing or whatever so that it was sleek and shiny like a Pantene commercial. But he wasn't doing his beauty routine today—or at least, he'd better not be, if he didn't want Dean to shave his fucking head. Maybe he'd do that anyway, if Sam stayed in there much longer.

Dean leaned back against the counter in the Gerbers' kitchen with his arms crossed, listening to the sound of the shower through the walls. He couldn't hear much, because the Gerbers had the loudest damn dishwasher ever invented, about at the level of the trash compactor on the Death Star. All he could really hear was the water smacking the tile floor in the shower alcove—just enough to know that Sam was still in there doing fuck knew what, like he had been for the last twenty minutes. Dean slid his hands down to grip the edge of the granite, feeling the stone bend the tips of his fingernails. If Sam was bleeding out in there, Dean was going to resurrect his ass and kill him again.

Sam had been doing a pretty good job of bleeding to death even before he got in the shower—he had stood at the sink in the master bathroom with a nosebleed like Niagara Falls for almost fifteen minutes, until he was lightheaded and had to sit down on a tall chair Cas dragged in from the breakfast bar. Cas kept saying the bleeding wasn't life-threatening, but Dean was sure his brother had lost a fucking pint. He'd stood next to Sam and listened while Castiel said things like _corrosive energy_ and _exposure_ —but mostly Dean had heard that the angel was going to be no damn help. Cas was all but useless already, but apparently even if he had been able to access his angel mojo, the last thing Sam needed right now was to turn the Uriel versus demon energy clash into a three-way brawl. The energy would dissipate in time, he'd said, and the only thing that would help at this point was for Sam to calm down; Dean wanted to know how Sam was supposed to calm down while he was bleeding out into a bathroom sink, and Cas had told him to stop yelling, and Sam had bled until the whole sink was red. The master bathroom looked like a crime scene.

The dishwasher's whine had become even more earsplitting. Dean wished he could put his foot through its silver chrome face. He hated this kitchen. It was too fucking cheerful, from the smiling snowmen on the hemp dishtowels to the last of the cookies Sam had made more than a week ago, all the stupid angels and fat-headed reindeer burned on at least one side. Dean wanted to chuck the plate through the window. His brother radar had been going off like a tornado siren all day, from the second Sam rolled out of bed looking like death reheated in a gas station microwave, and Sam—Sam had lied to his face. Tried to put him off, just like last time with this Uriel crap. Tried to keep him, of all people, at arm's length. Sometimes Dean wondered if his brother did shit like this just to piss him off. Sam had been pale as a corpse, shaking his way into the shower, and still he was claiming he was fucking fine, even though his hands were stained red and the shirt he pulled over his head was ruined for sure. If Sam wasn't _fine_ —actually fine—by the time he got out of the shower, Dean was going to beat somebody's ass, and right now he didn't care whose it was. Just so long as his hands got bloody, too.

And fuck, what was up with that dishwasher? It was roaring like a jet engine now, like the roaring in Dean's ears when Sam had sagged against the counter and Dean knew, just _knew_ , that this was all that dickhead angel's fault. He couldn't hear the shower at all anymore, couldn't even hear himself think. Dean barely felt himself move. He was at the counter, and then he was across the kitchen kicking the front panel of the dishwasher as hard as he could, four bangs that almost drowned out the noise of the fucking machine for a second. The impact made his toes ache all the way through his boot. The dishwasher didn't even stall.

"Fuck!" Dean shouted at the empty kitchen. It felt good to hear it echo, to pretend for one second he wasn't the only one who was so angry he could kill something. He kicked the dishwasher again.

"Dean."

And that was perfect—just fucking perfect. Sam was leaking down the shower drain one pint of blood at a time, and Dean was stuck in the gleaming kitchen with his worthless guardian angel, blank-faced as a piece of paper, all dressed up in a gray pullover like a fucking doll instead of an all-powerful soldier of God who was supposed to do something for Dean once in a while instead of just saddling him and Sam with this shit day in and day out. Dean turned around to face the angel, gripping the counter behind him to keep from crossing the room and slamming his fist into Castiel's face. He wanted to hear that sickening _crack_ , even if it was just the sound of the bones breaking in his hand.

"This is your fault," Dean said. Castiel glanced beyond him, and Dean almost lost it, his rage spiking in his head like lightning. "Not the dishwasher, you goddamn child. _Sam_. It's your fault this happened to Sam."

Castiel's face twitched, his eyes narrowing into an expression one step up from blank but no more readable for Dean—regret or anger, confusion or concern—fuck it, he couldn't tell. And why should he have to work so damn hard to figure out what Castiel was thinking—that was something Sam did, because Sam cared, because Sam was a touchy-feely little girl, because Sam was Sam. Because Sam was bleeding in the shower after an _angel_ had decided to tear him a new one. Dean wasn't sure who he was angry at anymore, but the anger felt so good he just went with it; he stalked across the kitchen and fisted one hand in the collar of Castiel's shirt, digging his fingernails into the gray fleece. Cas didn't even push him off like Uriel had. Maybe he'd left his balls in his other pullover.

"You dropped this bell shit on us. You brought us here. This is some serious crap you've gotten us into, and you can't even use your powers to help out once in a while? And then Uriel gets his hands on Sam…"

Some part of Dean was trying to remind him that Cas wasn't Uriel, that Cas was a blunt tool and Uriel was a sharp fucking tack, that it wasn't really Castiel's fault—but he told that part to go fuck itself and twisted his fist in Castiel's pullover, staring back into those empty blue eyes with his own narrowed green. Because hadn't Cas brought Uriel to them, too, all those months ago— and wasn't Uriel supposed to be under his thumb? What good was he, if he couldn't even keep other angels off of Sam? Suddenly Dean was back in the moment when he'd first seen that handprint branded onto Sam's arm, so angry he thought he could rip Uriel's balls off, metaphysical or not. And Cas—Cas had failed him, just like last time.

"You promised me this would never happen again," Dean growled. "You said you'd taken care of it. I mean, what the hell, Cas? Does this seem _taken care of_ to you?"

"No," Castiel replied. He said it almost in a whisper, and he sagged a little in his pullover—and fuck, when had his guardian angel turned into such a loser, anyway? Where was the heartless badass who had pulled Dean's ass out of the fire, literally, and looked at him like he was chopped liver for the first few months? That guy had pissed Dean off, but at least Dean had felt like he was a warrior, like he was strong enough to fry demons and anything else that got in his way. When had Cas gotten so goddamn human?

"This should not have happened," Castiel was saying. "I should have prevented Uriel—"

"Yeah. You should have," Dean snapped. "But you didn't do a fucking thing, and now Sam's suffering for it. And apparently you can't do anything about that, either."

"It's…" The angel cast his eyes up, as if looking for answers on the ceiling, and Dean just knew he was searching for small words, the easiest explanation that his tiny pea brain would understand. Well, Dean had some small words, too— _you're useless, go to hell._ "There is nothing that can be done, Dean," Cas continued finally. "Sam is being affected by psychic residue—the demon's and Uriel's—mixing in his body. Anything I do will only worsen the effects. All that will help him is to calm down; its psychic effects only grow stronger when he fixates on it."

"So you're saying this is Sam's fault?" Dean demanded. "Just deserts?"

"No," Castiel replied. Finally he was starting to look angry, his voice rough like it had been at the church—but Dean was sick of him already, and it was too little too late. "It is not Sam's fault. But he is the only one who can—"

"You know what? Fuck you, Cas," Dean said. He released his fist from the gray pullover and shoved against the angel's chest; Cas didn't even rock back, but Dean moved past him anyway, stalking out into the hallway before turning back with one finger raised. "If you're not gonna help him, why don't you just get out of here? Take a walk. Fly off. Whatever. I'm gonna stay here and take care of Sam, like I've always taken care of Sam. You can go to hell."

Castiel pressed his lips together. Dean had no fucking clue what that meant. Sam would have, and that sort of pissed him off at both of them. He gave Cas a hard look.

"Oh, and until you're sure all this _psychic residue_ crap is gone, here's an idea—keep your fucking hands to yourself. Just don't touch him, you hear me? Like you said—you're the last thing he needs right now."

Castiel opened his mouth, but Dean was done listening. Before the angel so much as cleared his throat he was down the hall and into the master bedroom, ready to set up camp outside the bathroom door for the next six days if that was how long Sammy needed the shower—because fuck Cas, he had always known how to take care of his own brother, and this was no different. Dean slammed the bedroom door and then locked it behind him, and swore in his head that nothing supernatural was going to get its hands on Sam anytime soon.

 

.x.

The blood would not come out of Sam's shirt. Castiel had tried to wash it in the laundry room sink, massaging detergent into the fabric as Sam had shown him a few days earlier when he'd trailed a shirtsleeve through white icing; he picked at the bloodstains with his thumbnail, and the soap suds came away pink, but most of the blood stayed where it was, dark spots bursting through the light green stripes of the button-down. Washing things by hand was an unfamiliar experience, but it was the blood that distracted him, kept him at the sink for nearly an hour running the shirt back and forth under the faucet, brooding over how the blood would come up under his nail but could resist the pull of the water so well. He was staring at the thin line of red under his thumbnail when he heard the front door slam.

Castiel turned off the faucet and tilted his head, listening. The house was quiet above him, except for the soft, distant clack he could identify by now as the sound of computer keys. The angel frowned. He left the shirt dangling over the edge of the sink and headed out into the hall, turning off the laundry room light with the heel of one hand. The disconcerting drip of water on the concrete floor haunted him all the way up the stairs.

Sam was sitting on the couch with his computer on his lap, a towel draped around his shoulders to catch the wet ends of his hair. Castiel had gotten used to the sight of him like this, still warm and damp from his shower, his eyebrows drawn together as he researched one more possible bell location, one more old record, one more uncertain lead. It could almost have been another night, save for the stack of ripped paper towels on the coffee table next to his steaming mug of tea, all the frayed white edges braced for more blood. Castiel paused with one hand on the railing. In the silence of the living room, he heard a car engine turning over, the creak of tires on an icy driveway, the particular growl of the Impala in reverse. Dean retreating. Castiel stepped off of the stairs.

"Sam," he said.

Sam whipped his head up, startled. For an instant there was fear in his eyes, the specter of darker voices contorting his expression—then his gaze caught Castiel's, and he relaxed, his shoulders slumping back against the couch cushions. Castiel watched him breathe out and wished he had said nothing, if the alternative was such uncertainty.

"Cas. Hey." Sam's voice was soft, as if he were surprised by the angel's presence in a way he had not been in weeks. "I didn't know you were…Dean said you might be out."

"No. I was…" Castiel found himself trailing off, staring back into Sam's waiting eyes. Suddenly he found he didn't want to speak of the bloody shirt, the way it hung limp over the edge of the sink, dripping slowly onto the floor. He wondered if this was where the holes in Sam's own sentences came from sometimes—things he did not want to say, for the sake of eyes that didn't need to darken again. Castiel shifted and took another step into the room. "Where is Dean?" he asked, though he could still hear the engine turning over in his mind.

Sam's smile seemed pinched at the corners, just the edge of a different emotion showing through. "He just went to get some food for me—us, I guess. And maybe some ginger ale, too. For, you know—stomach problems."

Castiel glanced at the cup of tea on the table. He recognized the false note of the offer Sam had made his brother; Dean seemed to have taken it for the out it was. Castiel had thought that Dean might stay, this time, when he'd knocked on the bedroom door after the shower turned off and Dean had pulled it open just enough to glare at him through the slit, and told him Sam was _fine_ , they both were, and get out. Still, somehow, the departure didn't surprise him. Dean was fiercely protective of Sam broken, but he did not seem to know what to do with Sam mending. Leaving was probably for the best, as Dean's anger and fear had only been making things worse—still, Castiel couldn't deny his frustration with the older Winchester for slipping away into the night. Or perhaps he was just frustrated that Dean hadn't said anything to him, preferring to leave Sam alone rather than in his care. The angel's gaze moved from the snowflake blanket draped over Sam's legs to the steam rising from his tea, to the computer propped open in his lap, before settling on Sam's face, the bangs curled softly around his ears. As always, it seemed, Sam was taking care of himself. Castiel pressed his lips together.

"Dean said that you would be staying in his bedroom tonight," he said, not certain what he was asking. Sam scratched the back of his neck.

"Um…maybe, I'm not sure. I'm really okay now, so…" Sam broke off and bit his lip, staring at something unseen on the laptop. Then he typed a few more words and hit the enter key, folding the computer closed as he glanced up again. "I was just sending an email to Bobby, about Archosias and everything," he finished, setting the computer on the table.

Castiel narrowed his eyes. "You should not turn your thoughts to this matter, Sam."

Sam's laugh was barely a breath, the softest suggestion of sound as he ducked his head. "Kind of hard to think about anything else."

For a moment neither of them spoke, Castiel watching Sam and Sam watching the floor. It took the angel longer than it should have to realize that it wasn't the floor Sam was watching after all—it was his hands, laid open in his lap, while his eyes traced the pattern of scars and wrinkles as if he could see the conflicting energy that clung to his skin, slick as oil. Castiel frowned. He moved to stand in front of Sam and reached out to take his hands—but before he touched the young man he hesitated, and then drew back, remembering Sam stepping sideways to avoid his hand in the library, the edge in Dean's voice as he'd stalked out of the kitchen. _You're the last thing he needs right now_. Castiel curled his hands into soft fists. Humans were so fragile that sometimes they broke each other even with offers of comfort—and Castiel was so much stronger than that, his touch so much more precarious. At last he lifted Sam's mug of tea and slid that into his hands instead, the sudden, almost painful warmth pulling Sam's eyes up to meet his. Castiel let go of the cup slowly, to be sure it did not fall.

"You should be resting. Or watching television. Dean has told me they are very similar."

Sam laughed again, slightly louder this time, as he lifted the mug and held it against his lips. "Yeah, well…half the time Dean passes out in front of the TV, so he would think that." Sam took a small sip and then crooked an eyebrow, nodding toward the couch. "You want to sit down, Cas? You're kind of…hovering."

Castiel did not want to sit down. He wanted to step back in time seven days, to the morning when Sam had pulled him down to the floor under the snowflake blanket and tucked up against him as if he would bury all the way through to his core, into the folds of his grace. He wanted to put his arm around Sam again. The space between them felt much farther now. He lowered himself carefully onto the far end of the couch, half a cushion stretching out empty between him and Sam. Sam ducked his head—but all his hair was wet and tucked behind his ears, so Castiel caught a glimpse of his frown before he turned away and flicked the TV on, a news program suddenly obliterating the silence between them.

Castiel was often fascinated by the news. This time, he didn't hear a word. The only sound in his ears was the steady drip of water falling from Sam's hair into the towel around his shoulders.

He was so focused on the infinitely small crashes that he was caught off guard when Sam muted the commercials and turned to face him.

"Hey. Um. This creature, Archosias. Can he influence dreams?"

Castiel's hands stiffened in his lap. "Sam," he cautioned. Sam just shook his head.

"Please, Cas—I have to know. I've had demons and stuff in my head before, and…I've been having these nightmares…"

Castiel pressed his lips together, warring between the warning in the back of his mind and the desperation in those hazel eyes. After a long moment, he relented, though he watched Sam's face as he spoke for any flicker of distress ignited by his words. "Not in the way that you mean. But the bells carry the taint of Archosias, his energy and an imprint of his spirit. You have been in contact with several of the bells now, including the incident yesterday." Sam flinched at even the vague mention of the confrontation with Uriel, and Castiel hesitated, but when Sam's face smoothed back to normal he went on, the words heavy and reluctant on his tongue. "It would not surprise me to hear that you have dreamt of him, Sam. You are very sensitive to energies for a human."

Sam gave a small laugh at that; Castiel tipped his head slightly, not comprehending his reaction, and Sam lifted one hand from his lap, waving the confusion away with a flicker of his fingers. "Nothing. Just…sensitive. It's one of Dean's watch words."

Castiel nodded once. "Dean is not very sensitive," he said, and was surprised when Sam laughed again, a full chuckle this time.

"Yeah. You're telling me."

For a moment Castiel said nothing else, just enjoyed the upward curve of Sam's lips, the color that had come back into his face, so different from the pale skin against his spilled blood before he'd stepped into the shower. Then suddenly Dean was in his mind again, the sharp green eyes as he'd fisted a hand in Castiel's shirt, all of his fear giving way to anger. _It's your fault this happened to Sam._ Sam's face when Uriel had first tossed him the bell, his lips parted around a hiss of pain. Castiel dropped his gaze and his eyes fell on Sam's left hand, the soft flush of skin where Uriel's brand had been. When he looked up again, his expression felt tighter, regret taking the place of relief at the corners of his lips.

"Sam." Sam quirked an eyebrow, and Castiel frowned, pressing his fingertips into the weave of his pant leg. "This should not have happened to you. I should not have let Uriel—"

"Cas." Sam's voice was soft, but there was something of the stubbornness Castiel had come to expect from both Winchesters in the way he shook his head, propelling a few drops down into the towel around his shoulders. "Come on. Don't do that, okay? It's not like that." Sam took a deep breath and scrubbed a hand back through his hair, leaving deep furrows in the damp strands. "This is just…like you said, it'll pass, and…nothing even happened in the end, so…" Sam trailed off with a shrug as his eyes settled on his hands once more. "No harm done, right?"

That was wrong, Castiel knew. There had been a great deal of harm done, even if it wasn't visible on the surface. Sam's shaking, pale hands catching his own blood as he stood unmoored at the edge of the kitchen, Dean's clenched jaw as he struck the dishwasher over and over—these were damages that did not leave a mark. Most damning of all were the promises he'd made— _I will not let anything happen to you_ , as he held Sam in the wake of earlier nightmares, _to do anything to protect those fragile hands_ , when they rested in his own powerless ones—promises he had made to Sam, and to himself, and could not seem to keep. Broken promises had sharp edges, and sharp edges left scars.

Castiel had never wanted to break a promise to Sam Winchester.

"Sam." Castiel had glanced down at his hands, but he looked up at Sam again now, tracing the path of a water droplet sliding slowly down his temple. "You spoke of nightmares. When Uriel threw you the ninth bell, and it touched your bare skin, did you see…"

The angel trailed off as he realized how pale Sam's face was, and that it was not water but sweat that had been coursing down his temple, trembling because Sam was trembling, his eyes fixed on his left hand. Castiel's heart jumped in his chest, his pulse suddenly racing in his ears.

"Sam," he repeated, more insistently. "Sam, you must not focus on it. Sam!"

The last was almost a growl, an edge of his true voice bleeding through; the windows rattled and Sam sucked in a sharp breath, as if his lungs had been choked off and were abruptly open again, leaving him gasping for air. He blinked rapidly and shook himself before turning to Castiel with wide hazel eyes, panting a little as the color seeped back into his face.

"Sorry, um…I'm okay. I'm…I was just—"

"I should not have spoken to you of this," Castiel said. There was anger in him again, as there had been in the church, his eyes locked with Uriel's—but this anger was all for himself, and it pushed him to the edge of the couch, his wings rippling with self-loathing. Dean had been right—he was the last thing Sam needed right now. Castiel braced his hands on his knees as he prepared to stand. "I will call Dean. He will return if he knows that you are—"

"No." Suddenly there was a hand on his arm, settling softly into the crook of his elbow. The touch was light, uncertain, as if Sam's fingers might flit away at any moment—Castiel felt it all through his form, like a shock of static electricity, racing even through the arcs of his wings. He glanced up to find Sam's expression worried, his eyebrows drawn. "I'm okay, Cas. I promise. Dean just…he needs some time to himself, you know? He isn't good at stuff like this. He's suffering, too."

"You are suffering," Castiel replied. And even though he could hear Dean's words in his mind heavy as stone, _don't touch him, go to hell_ , in the end he couldn't restrain himself; he lifted one hand and pressed it softly to the side of Sam's face, and brushed the sweat from his temple with the underside of his thumb. Sam leaned into the touch and closed his eyes. Castiel slipped his fingers into the strands of Sam's dark hair and realized, for the first time, how accustomed he had let himself become to touching Sam—he had not reached for him since the library, and the absence of contact had built in him, sharpening the tension in his shoulders. He hadn't even realized it was there until it all melted away against the warmth of Sam's skin. It was such a human addiction—contact, touch—and Castiel didn't know how he had caught it, let alone how to fight it. He sighed into his exhale, and Sam did the same, his eyes flickering open as the angel's thumb traced his cheekbone.

"I'm okay," Sam said again. His face had lost its paleness, and he managed a small smile, though it hovered at the corners of his lips. "I think I just need to lie down for a little while."

"That would be wise," Castiel replied. It took him another moment to remember where he was, that this was where Sam slept and that he would have to move, to stand up and disentangle his fingers from Sam's hair. He thought fleetingly of the week before, and what Sam had called their snow day, the perfect weight of the taller man curling into his shoulder—but it had been many days since then, and the snow was melting, and that was the last thing Sam needed right now. Castiel sat up from the couch cushions and drew his hand slowly back. "I apologize. This is your bed. I will let you rest—"

"Wait." Sam's voice was hesitant, as uncertain as his movements as he reached up and caught the angel's retreating hand. The motion was clumsy, their bodies too close for the bend of their arms to be smooth—but somehow Sam's fingers wound up tangled through his, and as Castiel watched they entwined fully, sliding down until they filled the gaps in each other. Sam gave his hand a light squeeze. "You don't have to get up, Cas. Just…could I…"

Sam broke off and bit his lip. For a long moment he stared at Castiel with unreadable eyes; the angel felt that he was asking something, something he should have known just from looking into those eyes, but human faces were complex and Sam's more so than most, something always held back, guarded. He squeezed Sam's hand in return and hoped that was enough of an answer. Sam's gaze softened. Then he tugged his hand back, and very slowly he lowered himself until he was lying on the couch with his head in Castiel's lap, his cheek pillowed on the angel's thigh. Castiel found he was holding his breath.

"Sam," he said.

Sam exhaled softly, the tension disappearing from his body as he closed his eyes again. Castiel watched his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks. "I like your shirt today, Cas," Sam whispered, the sound almost lost in the thrum of the heater coming on.

Castiel glanced down at his gray pullover. The fabric was still wrinkled where Dean had seized him, almost more violent in the release than the grab. He could feel Sam's hair still damp against his lap, the soft locks curling around his ear as they dried slowly, fading from wet-black to glistening brown. Castiel lifted his hand.

Dean's voice in his head: _keep your fucking hands to yourself._

Castiel slipped his fingers through Sam's hair, brushing it down into softened lines. "Then I will wear it again," he said. Sam turned his face into the angel's thigh, hiding his expression. But Castiel felt his jaw move under his fingers, and knew that he was smiling against the black fabric, his breath easy and warm. Castiel ran his fingers through Sam's hair again, all the way to the uneven tips.

"Good," Sam murmured. Castiel didn't answer. He just traced the shell of Sam's ear with one wondering finger and settled back against the couch cushions, and breathed out, prepared to stay where he was for as long as Sam would tolerate this. He had sat on the world's edges for so much longer, after all, holding things that were so much less important.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special note about this chapter:
> 
> I feel like sometimes people give Dean a lot of credit he doesn't deserve in terms of taking care of Sam. Dean has his protective moments, absolutely - but there are also quite a few moments when Sam is suffering or, especially, emotional and seeking support, and Dean can't handle it. It's one of the things that I like so much about the Cas/Sam pairing: the idea that Castiel could fill some of those holes by taking care of Sam in a way that Dean has never shown much patience for. Some might think that this chapter is overly harsh toward Dean. but I honestly don't think what I've depicted here is any worse than Dean's harshness toward Sam after John's death, or telling Sam he can't deal with him after Lucifer is released.
> 
> To be clear: Dean is not the villain of this story. But he's not the hero, either. I hope that's understandable to all my readers and doesn't make the story less enjoyable.


	23. December 22

**December 22**

Dean ground his teeth in frustration, cramming a plastic soda cup into an overflowing black trash can. The force made a Styrofoam box with a panda logo and a few brown noodles sticking to the edges pop out the other side. The hunter shrugged into his leather coat with a scowl and walked pointedly away. He hated places like this.

Desperation had made Sam extend his search to the very edges of the city, where this little hippie town apparently did have one huge indoor mall—more like a two-story house of Christmas horrors. There were no t-shirt shops or novelty stores in the huge structure, with a tall glass ceiling hung with oversize ornaments that made Dean feel like he was trapped in some kind of wonky children's book or on bad drug trip. He could certainly use some lubricant on this trip, but he was more a Jack Daniel's man than anything harder.

As a teenager he'd dabbled with weed a few times with some alternative friends—that being alternative to the ones that went to school—but instead of relaxing him, the stuff had just made him feel like he was seeing ghost and poltergeist signs all over the fucking place, and had led to him yanking his brother out of bed one night and driving all the way to Pastor Jim's. If Sammy's frightened face hadn't been enough to reform him, the Pastor's week long sermon on mind altering substances certainly would have made him think twice, if only to avoid ever hearing that much about God ever again.

Though he heard plenty these days. Dean glanced over to where Castiel was waiting for him, standing at a chest-high railing made of a sheet of glass and topped with a silver bar. A green garland with red bows had been draped prissily from the edges. The creeper himself was in his trench coat again, which meant that he was one black ski mask away from looking like the kind of guy who got fired at Christmas and then knocked over a liquor store while slurring out profane carols. Sam would disagree, of course, but that thought just made Dean clench his jaw harder. His little brother never knew what was good for him.

A small boy with floppy brown hair took one look at the hunter's expression. Then his face clenched up and he ran back to a blond-haired woman in fur-lined coat, who gave Dean a nasty look over the stroller she was pushing. He fucking hated places like this, full of yuppies and jewelry stores and employees in kitschy uniforms who gave him an appraising look before turning back to whatever they were doing, since he clearly didn't need any help _not_ affording anything in this craphole.

Of course, Sam didn't seem to care. He'd put on some crap blue shirt with snowflakes that he'd gotten on his waste-of-money expedition with his new favorite angel, and smiled at everyone and everything…then he'd waved, as he left Dean with the waste-of-space angel, to check with the help desk and run through the Radio Shack and get them a stack of phone batteries, which they were always low on somehow. And he'd smiled widely, despite the fact that they had less than three days to somehow come up with two bells; despite the fact that he had such dark circles under his eyes he looked like he'd been punched. It was like Sam didn't care at all.

Sometimes it was fucking hard to take care of his little brother.

Cas continued to stare out over the ebb and flow of people rushing around this Christmas diorama, and he was either on sleep mode again, or he was counting the number of lights on the fifty-foot Christmas tree that stretched all the way up to the high glass ceiling. He had considerd Dean for a moment when Sam walked away from them, turning to wave one last time, and then gone into shutdown mode. It made Dean angry, and the scene from the night before flashed through his mind again.

He had come back to find Sam sleeping on the couch, his head resting in the angel's lap and that flipping girl hair everywhere, and Castiel with his fingers in that hair—in spite of Dean's warning. He had gripped the plastic bag in his hand, not bothering to kick his shoes off as he entered. And that angel had narrowed his eyes at Dean, like he was the intruder—as though he was the one who didn't belong. If Sam hadn't been sleeping, he would have dragged the angel up by that ridiculous pullover and tossed him out the front door. Instead he'd pulled a can of ginger ale from the plastic bag, snapping the top open and setting it down hard on the crowded coffee table. For a moment there was only the slight buzzing sound of the fizz escaping as Cas looked between the can and the hunter.

"As much blood as he probably swallowed, he'll have an upset stomach," Dean told him. He knew Sam better than Castiel ever would, knew things the angel couldn't even hope to understand. "Flat ginger ale is the only thing that helps him—since he was a little kid." He emphasized the last words, shooting the other man a look. _Since I've been taking care of him_. The angel had looked at him intently, and nodded once sharply, but his hand hadn't moved.

Now he was stuck with the bell-sucker until they could meet up with Sam. Dean scuffed his feet along the tiled floor with a sigh, and then jabbed Castiel in the shoulder. It might as well have been a friendly tap, the way the angel reacted, moving away from the railing and readying to follow Dean. His supposedly blank expression was looking pretty sour. Dean rubbed a hand through his hair. There had definitely been a time when Cas was more fun.

"C'mon, dude," Dean said, walking away without waiting for a response. "Least we can wait down by the popcorn stand where we're going to meet up." The hunter paused briefly, letting another mom with a stroller-tank get on the escalator before him. The woman thanked Dean absently, juggling about a thousand things including a baby, and the hunter just shook his head. It wasn't politeness—it was self-preservation. He'd been rammed by enough armored baby cars to know he didn't want any new mothers, expectant mothers, or women with their mothers-in-law behind him. Monsters were fucking easier.

After giving them a little space, Dean stepped onto the moving black steps, inhaling the scent of the popcorn store wafting from the level below them—maybe waiting in the city-block-long popcorn line would waste enough time that they could escape this concrete atrocity and rip off the rearview mirror on the way out. Dean was lost in that daydream, and he was about a fourth of the way down the escalator before the annoyed voices coming from the level he had just left actually registered. He looked back up to see a small crowd of annoyed people, including a heavy-set woman with slightly purple hair in a poodle perm and about a zillion bags, stopped up by Castiel, who was parked at the top of the escalator doing an impression of the OCD character from that one detective show. Cas would place both his hands on the moving railing and then remove them as they started to slide away, trying to lift his foot at the same time as one of the black steps emerged, but not even getting a toe down before it was gone.

"Are you gonna go, dude?" a boy in a death-metal shirt with a nose ring demanded. Castiel looked back at him unsurely, and then down at Dean. The hunter shook his head. It really was like fucking babysitting. It took more effort than Dean had wanted to waste on this place, but he jogged back up the stairs, taking them two at a time to return to the top.

"C'mon, Cas, just step on, man—you're holding up the line." He waved impatiently with one hand, having to jog in place like a jazzercise mom just to stay within grabbing distance. The angel shook his head slowly.

"I would prefer normal stairs," he said. The woman with the bad perm, who looked like she'd been shopping and eating for twelve, tried to shove forward, her eyes widening in surprise as the weight of her considerable mass failed to displace the man in the trench coat.

"Hey, back off," Dean suggested, giving the crowd a nasty look. A few of them dispersed, probably to find other escalators, but poodle bitch stayed right where she was, putting her hands on her ample hips.

Dean was starting to get winded, having this conversation on the mall equivalent of an elliptical, and from down the way he could see a man in a security uniform striding purposefully toward them.

"Well, Cas, there are no stairs," Dean ground out. "So suck it up, close your eyes, and get on!" He punctuated the last by running up the final few steps and yanking the angel onto the escalator by one flailing arm. Castiel stumbled a little, which was hilarious because he hadn't lost his balance ever before in Dean's memory, and the fool looked like he were trying to walk on a ship in the waves and not a slow-moving escalator. He glared up at Dean with a bitchface that would have made even Sam proud, and then promptly sat down on the step.

Now the hunter did laugh out loud. People passing beside them on the up escalator were looking at Cas and whispering behind their hands, but Dean just grinned at a pair of girls with angel halo headbands and white coats.

"You gotta stand up to get off," Dean warned, as they approached the bottom.

"I will manage," the angel snapped. The hunter grinned, walking the last few steps in a hurry so that he could be off and out of the way in time for the show.

Castiel stood up slowly, keeping a death grip on the moving rails on either side, and then lifted his foot as far out in front of him as it would go. It looked like some kind of ballet move being performed by a drunk businessman. The angel's foot came down against the metal grate at the end with a sound like a cymbal, and he jogged a few steps forward with his leftover momentum. Dean laughed like a hyena. He remembered now why it was worth it to keep the angel around—because nobody played the stooge quite like some alien reject with no practical knowledge of Earth. Dean was still laughing as he slung his arm around Castiel's shoulder, guiding him away from the contraption and toward the five-fucking-mile-long line for popcorn. He had no idea what was taking Sam so long with the phone batteries—maybe there was some kind of Radio Shack sale with a line that wrapped three times around the building. Some kettle corn could provide the perfect time-fill, especially if he could engineer a little throwing action. Nothing said Christmas like kettle corn in Rent-a-Santa's beard.

Just before they hit the end of the line, one of the Christmas displays set up behind the eternal plate-glass windows caught Dean's eye, and he stopped dead, jerking Cas to a stop too and whistling under his breath as he gave the advertisement a serious once-over. The Victoria's Secret storefront was plastered with curling red words announcing _The New Angels Have Landed_ , and underneath them the devilishly debauched hourglass body of a voluptuous model with tousled blond hair and bedroom eyes, decked out in a red lacy bra and peekaboo underwear that said a little more Hell than Heaven, for Dean's money. The tip of her finger rested against her slightly parted lips, and out of her flawless back sprouted a pair of fluffy wings of curling white feathers. Dean smacked his lips together. He yanked Cas in with the arm around his neck, patting the utter failure of angelic engineering twice in the chest.

"Now that is what an angel is supposed to look like," Dean said, running his tongue over his teeth and gesturing toward the ad. He looked over at Cas, with his five o'clock shadow and bird's nest hair. "Your religion is nothing but disappointing, you know that?" he said.

Castiel narrowed his eyes, looking intently at the picture as though he were trying to memorize every tiny curve. Dean blinked, a sudden thought striking him. Could Cas look like that if he wanted to? Could he just hop into a sexy body or, like, poof one into existence? The hunter scrunched up his face. And more importantly, if Cas did come back looking like angel stripper candy, would he let Sam sleep with him then? Dean shook the thought away with a shudder. Maybe Castiel was just switching teams finally; all he needed was something that looked like his own kind to jumpstart him down the right road.

"Delectable, right?" Dean pressed, waggling his eyebrows up and down. Castiel looked away from the picture finally, but his expression was not nearly as slobbering or shameless as Dean had hoped.

"This person's appearance has been severely altered from the way she was born," Castiel said with some unease. "I am not entirely certain of her health."

"Damn it, Cas," Dean muttered, turning away from the heavenly picture with a huff, and noting that the line for the popcorn had gotten even longer while they wasted precious minutes on that missed opportunity. "You gotta suck the fun out of everything, don't you?"

Cas gave him a look somewhere between confusion and a bitchface. Dean just rolled his eyes and hoped that Sam would come back soon, and that the popcorn stand wouldn't run out of kettle corn before they got to the front.

.x.

The snowmen on the blue paper were smiling. Sam hadn't been particularly surprised at the design of the Gerbers' wrapping paper, but he was somewhat surprised at how much he liked it.

They hadn't found a bell yet today, but they had just come back from the huge shopping mall to take a quick break before heading out again, this time in two cars. Sam had gone to Harold Gerber's office under the guise of using the computer to follow up on a few more leads, and he had sent off an e-mail to Bobby, as well as Rachael the teen-beauty-tips prophet under the name of Samantha048 again, but really he had just wanted a few minutes to wrap his Christmas presents.

He had had one moment of doubt picking out a present for the angel, but in the end he had just gone for it. Now he spread the blue paper cutting out a square for the little box—and if Sam was honest with himself, it felt a little like he was wrapping up his heart. He hadn't meant to fall in love like this, hadn't meant to let it go this far, but somehow, no matter how many rules he imposed on himself, his heart broke them all.

He had a gift for Dean, too, that he had found much earlier at the outdoor mall, and even something for Bobby. Those two things were already finished, with carefully folded ends tucked under the Scotch tape. His brother's gift was topped with a plump blue bow he had found in a bag of extras. Bobby's had a fat snowman sticker made out of some kind of foam with googly eyes.

But Sam wanted Castiel's to be different. He was no expert gift-wrapper, but he could be careful, meticulous, and he had picked out a perfect curl of shiny silver ribbon that had tiny snowflakes etched into it. Sam curled the paper around the edges of the little box. The smiling snowmen seemed hopeful to him now, decked out in Christmas cheer, and full of Christmas promise.

This whole month had been like a memory in a perfect snowglobe, and Sam had been trying to hold onto it, remember every tiny detail, so that he could always keep these moments inside of him. But somehow, no matter how many times he told his heart to fall in line, the momentum of this fall wasn't stopping. The clear tape stuck to the end of his finger, and he folded the edges, smoothing them flat with his thumb.

He turned the little box in his hands, searching for imperfections before setting it down and pulling the silver ribbon free. He set the gift upside down, crossing one part of the ribbon over the other and tying it around the box. When he turned it back over, he lifted the trailing silver, looping it carefully into a bow and letting the ends curl under. He didn't need to write a note, because he had already made his Christmas wish, again and again.

_Just fall in love with me. Please._

.x.

Castiel and Sam walked slowly along the storefronts of the Pearl Street Mall, their footsteps quiet on the dry bricks of the cobblestone road. The night was cold, but clear; stars glistened in the open sky above them, and closer to the ground artificial light poured from the windows of the small stores, the soft yellow radiance pooling around the base of each barren tree, their branches illuminated with countless Christmas lights instead. Away to their right, the courthouse glowed against the darkness, the split levels of pale stone shimmering in the light of the long strings of bulbs that trailed from street level to the flat roof of the building, great arcs of sweeping light ascending one pinprick at a time. One of the bulbs near the roof was flickering, sending intermittent shadows over the shining clock face set into the side of the highest tower; Castiel watched it sputter for a moment before he turned back to Sam, matching the young man's easy pace.

"Have we not already searched this area, Sam?" the angel asked. His gaze dropped for a moment to the lump in Sam's jacket pocket, the bell that had been silent all day—but he looked up again as Sam laughed, the sound almost lost beneath the discord of carols spilling from the shop doorways. Sam tipped his head to one side.

"Are you going to tell on me, Cas?" he asked quietly.

Castiel studied his expression. Sam's eyes were bright with the strings of bulbs wound around the trees, but even in the soft light there was something tired about his smile, a heaviness that lingered in the wrinkles around his eyes. He had seen the same heaviness in Dean's face before the older Winchester announced he was headed to a bar, one Castiel was almost certain he had checked before. It was the stress of constant pressure, he knew—the uncertainty of the missing bells, and now the worry of limited time, the grains of sand slipping through their fingers. With every day, the Winchesters were fraying a little more. Castiel considered Sam for another moment before he turned away and focused on his shoes, the soft black tips jutting out in front of him with every step.

"I will not," Castiel promised.

Sam gave a laugh that was only a breath. "Thanks," he said. Then he turned his attention back to the shop windows, each one they passed throwing a fall of light across him.

They walked on without speaking; Castiel's eyes flitted occasionally to Sam's face, watching him watch the other pedestrians moving past them in the half dark, and the rest of the time he studied the display windows, each one rimmed with lights or garlands or sparkling tinsel. The outdoor mall was familiar to him now, and he thought he was beginning to understand why humans usually stayed in one place—everything seemed to remind him of something else, some other memory, the brilliant trees evoking the warmth of Sam's hand tucked into his pocket, the laughter from the patio of a nearby bar recalling the jingle of reindeer horns as Sam leaned into him, his breath warm with rum and candy canes, the sign for the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory conjuring the memory of Sam tipping his head back, his hair falling loose across his shoulders, and the softness of his lips against Castiel's fingers. Sam paused before the window of a small gallery, its display given over to a nativity scene all in glass, and Castiel recognized that he was beautiful this way, with an unconscious smile on his face, the glitter of the lights in the trees erasing all of his sharp edges. Then Sam flattened his hand out against the windowpane, and Castiel realized that he was reaching for the angel, suspended in the air above the manger on the curls of crystal wings.

They only stood in front of the store for a moment before Sam dropped his hand, offering the angel at his side a small, embarrassed smile before he started walking again. But even as they moved on Castiel's mind lingered on the figurine in the window, and on the store where he had stood earlier that day with Dean's hand on his shoulder, staring back into the blue eyes of a woman in red. What an angel was supposed to be, Dean had said. Castiel knew the older Winchester well enough to assume that the preference for unclothed women was something Dean had brought with him—still, he had found himself wondering about the wings on her back, a flurry of sweeping white feathers far too small to lift her from the ground. The same kind of wings Sam had buried his fingertips in, standing on this street so many days earlier—and so different from the wings on Castiel's shoulders, the wings he wanted, still, to wrap Sam in. Castiel was far from sure that he could manifest his wings, or that Sam would even be able to feel them if he did—but he wondered suddenly, all the rest aside, if Sam would be disappointed by them, the embodiment of grace he carried ever at his back, his shield and his chariot and his battle standard, nothing at all like great swaths of white feathers. He wondered if Sam might wish they were softer, if perhaps he wished angels were softer altogether.

"Hey, Cas?"

Castiel blinked his thoughts away and looked up to find Sam watching him, his hazel eyes shimmering with the reflection of Christmas lights. Sam smiled and then took a deep breath, and the inhale settled in his chest as he glanced down at his feet.

"I just wanted to say…these last couple of weeks, they've been wonderful. I mean, not the bells," Sam added quickly, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. "Or the stuff with Archosias. Obviously that's…but just having you around so much, you know, at the Gerbers' house—not that it's anything to do with the Gerbers', really. I mean, maybe a little bit, but…" Castiel felt himself frowning, and Sam winced, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. "You've just been spending so much time with me. And Dean, too, I guess. But this isn't really about Dean either."

"I am confused, Sam," Castiel confessed. Sam sighed and squeezed his eyes shut.

"I know. I'm sorry. I just…"

They had drifted to a stop in the middle of the path, the branches of the glowing trees stretching out over their heads. Ahead of them stood a wrought iron archway nearly as tall as the first level of shops and decorated with long ropes of garland and red ribbon twined through its metal rungs, with a string of white lights woven in between. Two figures, little more than silhouettes, stood beneath it with their faces close. Sam watched them for a moment before he turned back to meet Castiel's eyes, a tiny smile of some emotion the angel couldn't place twitching on his lips.

"I've never had a Christmas like this before," Sam said softly. "And I love it, and…"

He stopped abruptly, and the pause hung in the air between them, punctuated by breath and Sam's hands fidgeting in his pockets; Castiel studied them and realized for the first time that there was a curl of silver ribbon poking out of one, and that Sam had his fingers in it, twisting through the coils. He raised his eyes to Sam's face in time to see him inhale deeply, hold the air in his chest. Somehow it didn't stop his words, when he spoke, from coming out breathless.

"No one makes me feel like you do, Cas."

Castiel's pulse was rushing in his ears, and he did not know why, because he did not understand. The angel tipped his head to one side as a frown touched his lips. "Have I upset you, Sam?" he asked. It was always, ever, the last thing he intended, but humans were so fragile, and their communication so complicated—but Sam was shaking his head, shoving his hands deeper in his pockets, a puff of laughter escaping his lips.

"No, Cas, nothing like that. I meant—um…" Sam broke off again, and this time his laugh was deeper, self-deprecating, the inhale that followed it sharp like a hiss of pain. "Wow, this is harder than I thought it would be. I—okay, I…"

Sam pressed his lips together and returned Castiel's stare, and for a moment the angel was caught in the swirl of color within them, the glitter of gold and brown as Sam's expression begged him to understand something, to answer him somehow. Castiel opened his mouth but did not know what to say. Then Sam's shoulders slumped under his coat, and his hands slipped out of his pockets to rest at his side, everything in his posture withdrawing as he changed his mind. Sam's mouth twitched up into a smile, a little more wistful than the one he'd offered before.

"I don't really know what I'm trying to say, Cas," he finished at last. "And I'm sure you're totally lost, so…" He shrugged once, softly, and the motion upset the red scarf wrapped around his neck, setting the long ends swaying across his coat. Sam cocked his head to the side. "I guess just…thanks for everything, Cas. And so much more," he added, as his gaze dropped to his shoes.

Castiel did not understand how there could be more than everything. He understood enough to know he'd done something wrong.

"Sam…" he started.

Before he could say anything, Sam gave a sharp gasp, one hand jerking up to clutch the lump in his jacket pocket; at the same moment, from the other side of the walkway, came the sound of a woman shrieking, the short, high note bursting out of the dark. Castiel spun toward the noise to see that the pair of figures from before had stepped out from under the arch, and the woman's long scarf had caught on a protruding spike of metal, briefly choking her. The man beside her was already unhooking the green knit material, and though she was rubbing her neck, the injury did not seem serious—still, when Castiel turned back to his companion, Sam's eyes were wide, his gaze fixed on the glowing curve of the arch.

"No way," Sam whispered. He glanced at Castiel and then down at his pocket where the bell rested, and when he looked up his expression was uncertain, his eyebrows raised. "It's on the mistletoe arch?"

They waited until the couple with the scarf had moved away, and then they walked over to the arch, examining the decorations on all sides. Sam trailed his hands through the garlands where they were thick along the top of the arch, but when he drew them back they were empty, and Castiel shook his head, similarly unsuccessful in his examination of the red cloth ribbon wrapped around the sides. He gave a cursory glance to the small bundle hanging suspended from the center of the arch, a tousle of oval leaves and white berries wrapped in a trailing red ribbon—then Sam was speaking, and his gaze dropped back to the other man, standing beside him under the softly glowing structure.

"I don't know," Sam said, giving another shrug. "That was definitely a bell, but I don't see anything. Maybe it's just near here, in one of the trees or something…"

Sam craned his neck to see around the arch, squinting as he looked up into the illuminated branches. Castiel intended to do the same, but he found himself looking at Sam instead; his eyes traced the strands of dark hair falling into his face, the red scarf wrapped twice around his neck, just the edge of his cream sweater showing at the collar of his coat, his feet fidgeting in his heavy brown boots. Sam rubbed his hands against his thighs and Castiel watched his fingers clench in the material of his jeans. The angel frowned.

"Are you cold, Sam?" he asked. Sam glanced at him and then away again, his eyes flitting between the display windows of the nearest stores.

"I'm fine. I just forgot my gloves, so…"

Castiel considered him for a moment in silence. Then he reached out and took Sam's hand in his, and raised it slowly to his lips. He felt Sam's pulse speed up in his wrist as he blew a warm breath across the young man's knuckles. When Castiel glanced up from those softly curling fingers, he found that Sam had stopped shifting, his gaze riveted to the angel's face; he wore a strange expression, his eyes wide and his lips slightly parted, and something in his eyes almost seemed to ache as they held Castiel's so steadily. Sam swallowed hard.

"Cas, do you, um…do you know anything about mistletoe?" he asked, his voice rough.

Castiel stopped massaging Sam's hand and lowered it gently back to his side, their fingers catching for an instant before they slid apart. "Yes," he replied. "It is a poisonous, parasitic tree-dwelling plant and a dietary staple of certain species of flycatcher."

Sam bit his lip. "Anything else?" he whispered.

Castiel frowned. Through the interplay of shadow and light, the night and the shop windows and the softly glowing bulbs twined through the garlands over their heads, he studied the expression on Sam's face, searching for answers in his intense hazel eyes, the pulse beating in his neck, the edge of white teeth digging into the skin of his bottom lip. He knew that he was missing something, something that meant everything, and he wished Sam would just tell him what it was, what he needed, because Castiel would give him anything, everything, but he didn't understand. He tipped his head back to study the small clump of green hanging over them, desperate to see something more in those blunt leaves, to understand why humans would make a place for such a poisonous thing, why they would step under it—but he saw nothing beyond erratic green stems, withering leaves, white berries bound to the garlands of the arch with curling red ribbon. And somewhere above that, too deep in the dark green boughs for human eyes to detect, a dull shimmer of gold. Castiel exhaled softly.

"Sam," he said.

"Yeah?" Sam asked, breathless.

Castiel lifted one hand. As it reached the level of his shoulder, Sam's eyes flickered briefly closed, and Castiel wished he had time to explore that, to understand why Sam's lips had slipped apart—but he buried his hand in the tangle of garlands instead, and then withdrew it slowly, clutching the worn leather strap. Sam blinked down at the ancient handbell. Then he breathed out and ducked his head, and as his bangs slid into his face Castiel caught a glimpse of a rueful smile, his hazel eyes falling closed. When Sam raised his head again, the expression was gone, a much simpler smile touching the corners of his mouth as he slipped his hands into his pockets.

"One down, one to go," Sam said.

Castiel pressed his lips together, wondering why even the weight of the bell in his palm didn't erase the feeling that he had missed the only thing that mattered.


	24. December 23

**December 23**

_The bells rang like laughter through the blackness. Shattered pieces of stained glass fell like a hard rain, breaking into dust as they hit the cold ground around Sam. The tall hunter clutched his hands desperately over his ears, the fine glass dust biting into his knees where he knelt and filling his lungs._

_The laughter of Archosias_ _echoed through the empty space inside of Sam, until it felt like the tiny shards of glass must be in his veins, tearing him up from the inside. He tried to get to his feet, to run, reaching a hand blindly out in front of him. His fingers dragged across soft skin, smearing into the wetness._ _A large piece of flesh dislodged from the blackness, splattering against the ground. Wide black jaws howled, and the whole world tilted with the ringing._

_A single tooth of glass slid through Sam's hand, and suddenly he was pinned to the blackness behind him. He wanted to scream but his mouth was filling up with blood, and in the blackness now he could hear the steady dripping slops of Archosias_ 's _flesh sloughing_ _off of his body. For a moment, he wished for the light that had saved him once before, looked up in some kind of prayer._

_He eyes met Archosias's—deep black pits so wide and close that Sam could see his own reflection. The glass in his lungs was drowning him with his own blood, and as the sickening rain of flesh continued, Sam realized with horror that it was his own. The face in his reflection was falling away, the skin sagging and oozing around the yellow eyes of a demon._

_The razor teeth slid in the fleshless face, extending into a wide smile. "Sam…" the creature whispered._

Sam jerked upright, feeling the breaths tight in his chest. He felt sick and scared and lost all at once. He barely registered the couch and the glowing tree, struggling as quickly away from the blankets as possible. The bathroom was too far.

Sam slammed his shin against the coffee table limping over to the window, running his fingers across his sweat soaked face and staring into the glass. His reflection was shadowy, dotted by the tiny lights of the Christmas tree and backlit by the snow, which had begun to fall lightly again, but it was clear. Sam closed his eyes and let his forehead rest against the cold glass. He hadn't dreamt of yellow eyes in a long time. And Archosias…he couldn't quite bring himself to go back to the dream, afraid the darkness might swallow him again.

The cold against his forehead was calming, and it grounded him, so that he could feel the carpet beneath his bare toes, and the slight ache in his shoulder from sleeping fitfully. With one more deep breath, Sam lifted his head, putting himself together enough to lift his watch from the coffee table. A glance said that it was only ten p.m., but running back through the afternoon Sam realized he had been asleep for at least four hours.

The bells were starting to take their toll on Sam, or maybe it was the dreams, or it was just him. He had felt like he was fading, slowly and then more quickly. He had sat down on the couch with the intent to research, go through the archives of the prophet's index, anything, but he must have fallen asleep. The haphazard way his computer had obviously just been shut and his phone removed just smacked of his brother's particular brand of caretaking; but the removing of the watch and the blanket that had been tucked around him were more like Cas. At least his brother and the angel had found something to agree on.

Sam winced, suddenly wondering where the two were. Part of him longed to find Castiel, to fall back to sleep in the folds of that white light, but another part of him knew how selfish that was. And it wasn't really the time or the place. They had just a little over twenty-four hours. An irrational part of him didn't want to find Cas, because he was scared—scared that the angel no longer had the power to protect him, that the draining feeling that had been slowly choking him was the result of not capturing the angel's heart.

He had been so close to kissing Castiel, so close to that Christmas wish he had dared to make, and maybe this was the outcome—like some Grimm fairy tale, the original ones that ended with death and blood, and nothing but foam on the sea. Sam felt too hot again, and suddenly he just needed some air.

He moved quietly through the room toward the stairs that led to the door, grabbing his coat off of the railing. As he passed the hallway, he could hear Dean's voice coming through the door of Harold Gerber's office, raised and angry. He couldn't make out the words or maybe he just didn't want to, but he could imagine Castiel for just one moment in the lull of Dean's voice, the soft tones that maybe he was hearing or maybe just imaging.

He moved past the sound, slipping his boots on and cracking the door. The cold air rose up to bite his cheeks, choking his lungs and making him cough a little. He closed the door quickly behind him, shoving his hands into his pockets and stamping his feet. In a moment, his breaths had returned, making little clouds of air hang as he exhaled into the cold. It was dark out, but not the way it had been with Archosias or underneath the church. The endless snowfall had its own light, enhanced by the streetlamps peppered between mailboxes and driveways.

Sam walked down the slick driveway as carefully as he could and moved to stand under the closest streetlamp. The cold was already numbing his toes and the little gusts of wind were so frigid they made his face hurt, but it felt clear, chasing away the hot breaths of the demon in his dreams. Sam closed his eyes again, tipping his head toward the light above him. Even through his eyelids he could see the brightness, feel the tiny flecks of snow landing on his cheeks.

"That pathetic human light will not be enough to drive away the darkness."

Sam's eyes snapped open, and he took a surprised step back. Uriel stood on the sidewalk in his pristine suit, moving forward casually until he stood right in front of Sam in the circle of light against the sidewalk. Sam backed to the edge of the circle, his eyes flickering to the house where Castiel was.

"You want to tell on me, Sam?" Uriel asked with a knowing expression. "You want to hide behind your brother's guardian angel?" He held up his hands, raising both palms. "By all means—whatever you think you need to do—but I bear you no ill will. Not tonight." Uriel sneered in a semblance of a smile at the last.

The cold words sent a shiver down Sam's spine—or maybe that was the wind, upsetting the snow around them. The expression on Uriel's face was as sharp as his tongue—but that didn't mean that the angel was wrong, and Sam settled onto the balls of his feet, forcing himself to stand his ground.

"I'm not going anywhere, Uriel," he said slowly, stepping back into the center of the light. The small flakes of white glistened underneath the streetlamp as they fell, covering the black suit of the tall angel with a sprinkling of ivory. Uriel's breaths were puffs of white in the air, identical to Sam's, but it didn't stop the angel from staring down at him with undisguised hatred.

Sometimes Sam thought maybe there was a twisted sort of connection between him and this angel. Uriel was unflinching about his assessment of Sam, and unflinchingly honest about his opinion. If Castiel was his hope for all that angels could be, all that salvation could be, then Uriel was the mirror that never let him escape the truth about himself. Sometimes Sam just wanted to let it all go, to be someone else; maybe Uriel was his angel, after all, sent to remind him of the things he should never be allowed to forget.

"Did you have something to say?" Sam asked softly, letting the wind swallow the words and carry them away. Uriel's eyebrows raised, and his lip curled.

"Do you know why all these terrible things keep happening to you, Sam?" the angel questioned. "Why the bells are reacting so strongly?" Sam shook his head, but Uriel hardly paused, shifting in a way that reminded the tall hunter of a bird settling. "It's because of that poison in your blood. You're being pulled to the bells, just like all the other monsters and freaks, and Archosias is being pulled to you."

Somewhere the bottom of Sam's stomach was dropping out, and a cold feeling was settling into his body, but the rest of him was focused on Uriel's moving lips, because wasn't it always Sam in the end that was the problem? A strange, pleased smile flashed over Uriel's face as he stepped forward, moving into Sam's space.

"A creature like you, Sam—you wouldn't even need to carry a bell to able to sense them." The angel tipped his head to the side, the same motion that Sam had seen so many times on Castiel—but it looked wrong on Uriel, condescending instead of curious. "You aren't so different from these bells, are you?" the dark angel asked, taking in all of Sam in one flickering glance. "Vessels for something holy, created in the name of God, irreparably tainted by Hell." Uriel's mouth hung for a moment as though he were going to say something else, and Sam's guts churned, but he forced himself to stand still, to keep his gaze on Uriel's.

"Okay. Can that help us somehow?" Sam shifted his feet, fisting his hands in his pockets. Uriel's bark of laughter was harsh, and it reminded the tall hunter of the demon in his dream, making him want to cover his ears.

"I doubt anything can help you anymore," the angel sneered. "But you'll be there in the end. Archosias has gotten a taste for that tainted flesh of yours. Yours is going to be the first soul he devours." Uriel raised his eyebrows, and Sam felt a surge in the air for just a moment before he was alone under the light with the snow swirling around him, upset by the beating of invisible wings.

Sam shivered suddenly, realizing how cold he was. He could feel the pulse in his neck, the cold air in his lungs and the heaviness of the nightmares hanging persistently on his shoulders. There was only one way to end this, and that was to find that last bell.

Sam's feet slipped a little on the slick black ice invisible under the light sheet of snow as he walked up the driveway. He debated briefly telling Castiel and his brother about Uriel and what the angel had said—but really, what purpose would that serve? The only option they had was to stop Archosias by any means necessary, and nothing Uriel said changed that. The last thing they needed right now was a distraction.

Sam was quiet when he slipped inside and toed off his boots, shivering under his coat. He made his way to the top of the stairs and then stopped, one hand braced on the railing, to look out across the living room—the familiar wraparound couch, the soft glitter of the Christmas tree—and remembered so many nights falling asleep right here, how comforting it was to drift off with Castiel sitting next to him, paging through a book. Sam looked down at his feet and listened to the raised voices from the office down the hall. Then he stepped off of the last stair and strode into the kitchen, ready for another cup of coffee.

He would stay up all night if he had to, chase every single lead, track down every single place where the last bell could be hidden. He didn't really feel like going back to sleep anyway.


	25. December 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special note: This is the second-to-last chapter, the climax in many ways. Enjoy.

**December 24**

Dawn was just breaking as Castiel stepped out of the upstairs office and made his way down the hall to the living room, the shadows of his shoes disrupting a sweep of bitter morning light across the wooden floor. He had spent most of the night in the office, searching with Dean for any further clues to the last bell's location, but they had found next to nothing, even less as the hours wore on and Dean's temper simmered beneath the surface, igniting at every false lead or dead end. Castiel had left the room only once to look in on Sam, in the stale hours after midnight while Dean was resting fitfully, and he had found the younger Winchester hunched on the couch, a mug of coffee forgotten in his hand and his eyes riveted to his computer screen. The couch was empty now; the snowflake-patterned fleece that had kept Sam warm so many nights was crumpled at one end of the cushions, and the entire room seemed cold to Castiel, all the color drained from the myriad of snowglobes, the paintings on the wall, the snowman runner placed under the television. The Christmas tree was dark against the window.

The containment vessel he had brought from Heaven had been left on the table the night before, and Castiel stepped around the careless chairs to lift its golden latch, the hinge creaking as he raised its lid; the depressions inside were filled now, all but one, the space marked out for the lowest tone, the largest of all twelve bells, too large to hold in one hand. The one that would have absorbed the most of Archosias's power, when the demon was sealed. Castiel trailed his fingers over the curve of red velvet. The destruction Archosias could wreak with the power sealed in the last bell alone, if they were unable to find it in time, was sobering. More sobering was Castiel's uncertainty whether the holy vessel would be strong enough to prevent all the seals from breaking, if the first one did.

There was a shift in the kitchen behind him, and Castiel turned to see Sam pouring yet another cup of coffee, his hair hanging limp across his shoulders. When Sam finished filling his mug and turned to meet the angel's gaze, Castiel found himself taking an involuntary step forward, his eyebrows drawing together; the young man's face looked worn, almost gaunt, and there were dark circles in the hollows beneath his eyes, thick as the kitchen shadows that obscured his expression. Sam offered a tight-lipped smile and Castiel frowned, locking the containment box with one absent hand.

"Sam. Have you slept?" he asked. Sam's eyes darted away for a moment, and when they came back to the angel's they were emptier, more guarded, an expression Castiel had learned to recognize—Sam preparing to lie to him.

"Yeah, I got a few hours. Don't worry about it," Sam said.

Castiel pressed his lips together. But he lost his chance to say anything else with the sound of a door wrenching back and then heavy footsteps in the hall; Dean appeared at the edge of the breakfast bar with a scowl on his face, wrestling his cell phone into his pocket. Castiel noticed the older Winchester was fully dressed already, all the way down to his scuffed boots.

"Well, Bobby's got jack shit," Dean told them, slapping the flat of his palm against the marble countertop. "He's gonna keep an eye on the prophet princess's blog today, see if anything useful pops up at the last second, but I'm pretty sure we're on our own here." His eyes narrowed as they slid over to Sam. "You're not gonna fall asleep on me, are you, Sammy?"

Castiel felt himself frown, but Sam only laughed, a hollow sound that did not echo in the still air. "Yeah—no worries. I think I have more coffee than blood in my system right now." He slipped by Castiel to move back into the living room, and the fingers of his empty hand brushed the angel's in passing—but before Castiel could even think of reaching out to entwine them, to offer comfort or solidarity or something else altogether, he was already gone, leaning over the short coffee table and holding up two sheets of paper. "I made a list of all the possible locations Dolores could have left the last bell—every single place that's holy or festive that we haven't covered yet. Then I excluded all the bars and restaurants, which at least brought it down by about half, but…"

"Hold up," Dean broke in. "You sure it's a good idea to throw all those places out, Sam? That's leaving a pretty big hole in our sweep."

Sam let out a heavy sigh, and Castiel watched his shoulders slump, his body seeming to crumble under the weight of his exhale. "I don't think we have a choice, Dean. None of the bells so far have been in restaurants, not to mention bars don't really seem like Dolores' style. And I had to narrow the list down somehow—even with all the restaurants out, there are still forty-six places that could be possible bell locations. And we only have until midnight, remember?"

"Like that's something I'm going to forget," Dean snapped.

For a moment the Winchesters were silent, exchanging stares, Dean's wild and Sam's exhausted; Castiel watched their drawn faces and wondered for the first time if they might have been spared this if they had never come to the attention of Heaven, if he had never pulled Dean from Hell or shaken Sam's hand. Then Sam was holding out one sheet of paper, and Dean reached out to take it, the page crumpling like a fan in the vise of his fist.

"Fine. One bell, forty-six possible locations—so twenty-three each—and we've got to do it all in…what are we at now?"

"Seventeen," Sam said, the word almost too soft to hear.

Dean nodded once. "Seventeen hours. Awesome." He looked down at the paper, and for a moment Castiel caught a glimpse of something on his face, something dazed and overwhelmed under the veneer of impenetrable anger—but just as quickly it was gone, replaced by a clenched jaw and hard green eyes rising to find Castiel's. "I fucking hate angels," Dean said, and Castiel wondered if he was meant to include himself or not. Then Dean reached across the coffee table and punched his brother's shoulder, and turned away to thunder down the stairs, the wrinkled paper disappearing into his pocket. "Better haul ass, Sammy," he called back over his shoulder. "Seventeen hours till the world burns."

Castiel watched Sam's face twist, his lips twitching as he tried to keep a thousand emotions from his face, fear and doubt and resignation—so much more expressive than Dean, always, but so much harder to read. Their eyes came together, and for an instant Castiel saw something he had not expected, a flicker of panic across Sam's face; suddenly he wondered if something had happened, something that Sam was keeping to himself. He wished he had the time to figure out what the younger Winchester wasn't telling him—but Dean wasn't wrong, and their time was already far too short. Castiel felt his wings flickering against his back, his mouth falling open with the desire to make one more promise, that whatever unfolded, whatever burned, he would not let anything happen to Sam—then Sam ducked his head and squared his shoulders, and Castiel found that he was watching him go, the lines of his body stiff as he shrugged into his brown coat. The angel listened to his footfalls on the stairs, every step heavier than the last. Castiel's wings tightened at his back.

He had no one to make that promise to, the house falling into silence around him—but it was a promise he would keep this time, no matter what the cost.

.x.

Dean raced down the dark sidewalk of the Pearl Street Mall, jostling through the late-night crowds of hippies in puffed-out parkas and wool beanies. Some woman with three-colored hair shot him a nasty look as they bumped shoulders and her Starbucks cup flew out of her hand, but Dean didn't even spare her a _fuck you_ —it was the end of the world again, and he was out of time.

Seventeen hours. Seventeen fucking hours _wasted_ and not a thing to show for it. Dean had searched the city from one end to the other—north, south, up, down, around in circles and bass-fucking-ackwards—and since there were no restaurants or bars on Sam's colossal to-do list, he hadn't had a burger, he hadn't had a beer or a cup of coffee, he hadn't had so much as a stick of gum since they split off that morning, him in the Impala and Sam and Cas in the soccer mom van. Dean had been just as glad to send his guardian angel with Sam, because his little brother looked like death warmed up and then run over again—the circles around his eyes were so dark Dean was afraid his eyeballs were just going to sink back into his skull, and his hands were shaking as he reversed the Gerber-mobile out of the driveway, not even glancing up to see Dean watching him through the window. Dean gritted his teeth and leapt over a bench, dodging a knot of cheer zombies lighting tall white candles. This bell shit was going to kill them both—either in thirteen minutes, when the world exploded, or even sooner than that if Sam keeled over from a stress heart attack. Dean wouldn't be far behind him.

They had met up, briefly, at one end of the peds-only Pearl Street Mall two hours ago; a lot of the places on both lists were here in this glorified outdoor hippie mecca, and they'd saved them for last, since the stores were closer together. Sam had given Dean the thin-lipped smile he recognized as his brother's _if I don't see you before the world ends_ smile before they set off in different directions—God, Dean hated that smile, and how messed up was it that Sam even had one of those? Cas had left them both, to go conference with the rest of the halo squad or something—Dean didn't really fucking care where that overgrown pigeon went, since he was useless as shit at finding these bells. Dean had spent the last couple hours kicking down doors, because most of the places they were investigating closed at like four p.m. on Christmas Eve, and then breaking whatever he could get his hands on, just to see if a shard of pottery or glass or terra cotta would try to bury itself in his arm, like it had to Sam—but he had nothing, nada, zilch, not a tremor or a tingle or a fucking typewriter _ding_ from the bell in his pocket. The world was going to burn because he couldn't solve a scavenger hunt set up by a nun who'd been dead for a hundred years. If Dean wasn't so busy shoving hippies out of his way and dodging trash cans, he would have kicked his own ass for sucking so much.

Dean screeched to a stop at one of the few through streets that did allow cars, and craned his neck to see over the pea-green SUV rolling by, scanning the crowd on the other side. He had caught a glimpse of Sam out the front window of one of the stores he was vandalizing, and he'd been trying to catch up ever since, but it was ridiculously hard to track Sam through all these people—ridiculous because Sam was the size of a house and he should have been sticking up like a telephone pole over the heads of these soybean-scented hippies. And what the hell were all these people doing here anyway? Instead of sitting at home eating granola and smoking hash, it seemed like half the city had turned out to pile on the courthouse lawn, lighting candles and watching the minutes tick down on the huge glowing clock on the front of the building. Some of them were swaying next to the empty fountain, singing Good King Applesauce or whatever the hell. Dean hoped this was how they wanted to spend their last eleven minutes—singing Christmas carols that everybody was sick of fucking weeks ago.

The cars finally parted, and Dean raced across the street, forcing his way through the thick crowds—but Sam had disappeared again, swallowed up somewhere in the madness of unwashed hill people. Dean cursed under his breath and looked up at the courthouse clock. Ten minutes now.

He'd always known it was going to end bloody, but he hadn't expected it to be a case like this, a hand-me-down from the assholes who called themselves angels. Or that he'd be standing alone, hemmed in by hippies, at the moment it all went down. Dean pushed himself up onto his toes, taking another glance around. But there was no sign of Sam anywhere, not even that mess of girl hair sticking up above the crowd. Dean fingered the holy water in his pocket and stared up at the clock. He wasn't going down without a fight, because that wasn't the Winchester style—if Archosias was going to drag him back to Hell, he was going to do it through a mouthful of acid, and maybe that'd at least make him hurl. But it would have been nice to be standing there with Sam, as the minutes ticked down.

No brother, no angel, no fucking chance. This was shaping up to be a fantastic Christmas.

Nine minutes.

.x.

All the lights up and down the street were swimming by the time Sam stopped running and stumbled to a halt on the courthouse lawn, his heart pounding so hard his ribs ached from the inside. Sam braced his hands on his knees and struggled to breathe. He felt dizzy and sort of like he might be sick, even though he had nothing to lose—he was thinking now that it might not have been the best plan to go into the final battle with only four hours of sleep and three cups of coffee to draw on. The crowd of carolers spread across the expanse of concrete and dead grass leading to the courthouse steps all seemed to be swaying, the tapered candles bobbing up and down in their hands. Sam squeezed his eyes shut and dipped his head even farther, willing the blood to rush to his brain. His stomach felt weak; it might have been from sprinting through the outdoor mall, the cold air stinging like glass in his lungs, but there was just as good a chance it had everything to do with the demon that would be breaking free of its seals in a little under eight minutes, and then heading straight for him. As night fell, all the shadows he caught out of the corner of his eye seemed to morph into jagged black teeth, ragged fur, dripping pools of blood, and in the laughter of every person passing him on the street he heard again the ringing laughter from his dream, felt the impossibly sharp teeth crushing through the flesh of his forearm. He had been running because they were out of time, but it wasn't the only reason.

Sam wondered which was worse when it came to being ripped apart by a creature of hell: going first or going last.

With every hour that had slipped past and every possible bell location that yielded nothing, Sam felt the tiny seed of panic Uriel's words had left in him growing an inch at a time, until it was a choking vine that made it hard to breathe, harder still to think. He and Castiel had mostly searched in silence, because Sam was preoccupied and just flat-out exhausted, but he had caught the angel watching him on and off, and every time his gaze locked with otherworldly blue, Sam thought of the demon licking its lips and found himself wishing, _not yet_. It was a ridiculous thing to hope—it wasn't like there was a good time to have your soul devoured and torn to shreds, and he'd already missed his chance with his brother's guardian angel anyway—but he couldn't help it; every time he looked over at Castiel, in his familiar suit and trench coat again, looking intense and wired and more than a little anxious, he just wished _not yet_. Sam had made the angel promise to spend Christmas with him and Dean, and he wanted that, even if it wasn't quite the Christmas he'd wished for sliding his finger over foggy glass. He didn't want to leave that memory undone.

Sam took a deep breath and straightened back to his full height, his head feeling a little clearer with each cold inhale. He didn't know where Castiel was anymore, or Dean either—and he just kept ending up here, in front of this courthouse. He leaned back and stared up at the high yellow-white building, its edges hazy under all the lights. They had only been searching Pearl Street for two hours, but he had found himself here three times, standing next to the drained fountain and looking up at the courthouse, wherever he had meant to go forgotten. Sam's eyes traced the strings of lights that trailed from the ground to the highest point of the roof. Some of the bulbs were out at the top, and the rest were flickering. He slid a hand over the bell in his pocket. It was still, hadn't made a sound, but he couldn't help feeling something was pulling him here. The brilliant white lights shining up against the face of the stone made heavy shadows along the roofline, and for an instant Sam thought he saw something crouching in them, smiling black jaws stretching back to swallow him…

A buzzing in his coat pocket snapped him out of his trance. For a second he thought it was the bell, finally, reacting to something, but then he realized it was his phone, tucked into the other pocket. Sam dug it out and blinked at the screen; then he answered and pressed it to his ear, trying to shake the spots away from his eyes.

"Bobby?" he croaked.

"Sam!" The older hunter was nearly shouting, worry and urgency making his tone sharp. "You get your ass away from any tall buildings, you hear me?"

Sam blinked up at the courthouse, his head swimming as he watched another light bulb go out. "What? Why?"

Before Bobby could answer, there was a rustle of wings at his back; Sam spun around to see Uriel standing behind him, his pristine black suit as out of place in the Christmas Eve crowd as the cool expression on his face. Sam's heart clenched in his chest.

"Uriel," he breathed.

"The prophet has had another dream," the dark angel said. Then he reached out and pressed two fingers to Sam's temples, and Sam's stomach lurched with that familiar tug of vertigo. He felt the phone slipping out of his hand in the instant before they disappeared.

Uriel set him down on the roof of the courthouse, so close to the edge that his shoes were licking the open air. Sam gasped at the lights of the city all spread out below him. The wind this high above the ground was breathtakingly cold, and it bit into Sam as he threw out a hand, searching for something solid to steady him, the way Castiel always did when they landed—but Uriel was already moving away across the flat roof, the sound of his footsteps a sharp snap on the cement.

"Quickly. You only have six minutes, remember?"

The cold air was too sharp, like a spike in his brain, but Sam forced himself to turn around and follow the angel—his angel, the closest he would ever have. He had only taken a few steps when he stopped dead. Though the snow from the last storm was all but melted in the square below, there was a perfect circle of unbroken white snow in the middle of the roof, and at its center gleamed something cold and hard and metal, its dull golden contours shining in the glow of distant lights. Sam felt his breath die in his throat.

"That's…" He took another step forward, but stopped before he broke the circle of snow, remembering the bite of blue glass in his arm. "That's the last bell. That's it—we found it." Uriel was watching him from a few feet away, a patronizing curl to his lips—but right then Sam didn't care, couldn't even bring himself to acknowledge the dark-skinned angel's scorn; his pulse was pounding in his ears, and he felt a little lightheaded, the reality of the moment struggling to sink in. The bell was there, right in front of him, and the church bells weren't ringing yet, which meant it wasn't over—it didn't have to be over. Sam felt a smile touch his lips, but in a moment it had given way to confusion, his forehead furrowing as he spun around to face the edge of the roof again. "But why—why would she put it up here…"

The words died on his tongue as Sam looked out over the city, really looked this time. From the roof of the courthouse, the whole world was lit up, strings of Christmas lights and the shining trees and the glow from the street below and the star etched out on the hill, and the courthouse at the center of it all, anchored to it by the four long strings of light stretching from the corners of this, the highest part of the roof, to the ground below. From above, the pattern of lights almost looked like a seal. Sam looked down at the flicker of candles from the crowd in front of the courthouse and their voices drifted up to him, the opening bars of "O Holy Night" amplified against the stone of the building.

Sam's eyes flickered closed, just for a moment, and he let out a long, slow breath, taking comfort in the glow that was so strong even through his eyelids. Then his eyes came open and he caught a glimpse of the clock face from above, its black hands far too close together now, and he wheeled around, his gaze locking on the bell once more.

"I have to call Cas," he said, moving forward and stepping at last into the circle of snow. The hardened crust of flakes crunched under his shoes. "We have to get this into the sealing box before—"

"I'm afraid that isn't going to work this time."

Uriel's voice was soft at his back, but it stopped Sam cold, a shiver sliding down his spine. He looked over his shoulder at the angel, really noticing for the first time the persistent smirk on his dark face. Uriel tipped his head almost mockingly to one side.

"Look at the bell, Sam," he encouraged in a whisper.

Sam swallowed and turned away. The bell was a few strides farther, and his shoes seemed to stick in the snow with every step, the hard edges of the icy flakes clinging to his soles. The bell had frozen into the snow, and the cold metal stung like glass as he touched it and then eased it slowly up from the roof, revealing the hard ring like a bite mark the dull edge had left in the snow. As soon as he had picked it up, there was a sharp pain in his fingers, and Sam hissed, ripping his hand back to find blood pooling on the inside edge of his thumb. Sam stared at his hand and then at the bell, and something cold settled into his stomach as he noticed the crack running all the way down one side of it and ending in a cleft in the rim, marked now by the crimson of his blood. The bell was suddenly so heavy Sam thought his arms would break just trying to hold it up. He pressed it to his chest and then turned around slowly to find Uriel still watching him, his hands tucked into his black suit pockets.

"Do you know what the prophet saw in her dream, Sam?" Uriel asked. His tone was soft but so jagged in Sam's ears, and he wished he could reach up and cover them, but it took everything he had just to hold onto the bell. Uriel stepped forward, the tips of his black shoes resting on the line of snow. "She saw a man—a very tall man, dressed in an old brown coat and holding a large golden bell—step up to the roof of a building and then drop, taking the bell with him. She woke up before he hit the ground—but isn't that always the way with humans? You never dream about the crash."

Sam blinked, his arms tightening unconsciously around the bell. The blood had stopped flowing from his thumb, but not before a few drops tumbled into the snow, breaking the expanse of white even more than his footprints had. He shook his head. "I don't understand. What are you telling me, that—that you brought me up here to throw myself off the roof? Why?"

"The bell is cracked," Uriel told him. His voice was sharper now, rising as the angel stepped across the snow and stood toe to toe with Sam. Uriel was the same height as he was, but Sam always felt nonetheless that the angel was looking down on him somehow, and that he was so small under the weight of those dark eyes. Uriel shook his head. "The seal is already breaking—it's been breaking for days. Just look around." He swept one hand toward the edge of the roof, and Sam realized for the first time that even though the four strings of lights rose from the ground to touch those corners of stone, the bulbs at the top of each string were out, nothing fighting the shadows at this highest point of the building. Uriel shrugged. "Archosias' power is already leaking from that once holy relic in your arms. It is far too late for Heaven's vessel to contain him. In five minutes, the seal will lose the last of its power, and Archosias will be free, at least part of him. It won't take long for the other parts to follow."

The air was too cold against Sam's ears and in his lungs; it burned like glass, tiny shards that were getting inside of him, scraping and tearing at his flesh. Sam shook his head, trying to keep his thoughts clear. "So—what, it's too late? Archosias gets out and…he destroys the city and everyone in it?"

"Well, that depends on you, doesn't it?" Uriel asked.

Sam shook his head again, grinding his teeth together. "Spit it out, Uriel. We don't have time for this."

For a moment Sam thought Uriel was going to strike him, or reach out and grab him by the arm, burning his mark back into Sam's skin. But the flare of anger receded as quickly as it had risen, and in an instant Uriel's expression was calm and cold again, as cold as the piercing wind whipping around them. The angel took a step back, the snow crunching under his shoes with a sound like splintering bone.

"I thought you would understand by now," he said. "I told you, Sam: Archosias has a taste for that poison in your blood. The moment he's released, he's coming after you for the rest." Sam glanced down at his hand to find that the blood had started flowing again; the impression of his thumb stood out along the curve of the bell, a silhouette in scarlet. He swallowed and Uriel shrugged, his shoulders rising slowly as if they bore the great weight of invisible wings. "Of course, after he's done with you, there's nothing to prevent him from descending on the rest of the city…unless you were no longer here."

"If I was dead, you mean," Sam managed, though the cold air cut into his tongue.

Uriel tipped his head. "If you were in Hell, where your twisted, infected soul is already bound. Where it has always been bound."

Sam turned his face away, into the wind, his head swimming with the angel's words and the pain in his hand and the lights of the street below, each of them wreathed in a dizzy halo—but in a second Uriel was right in front of him again, the snow lifting from around their feet at the beat of the dark angel's wings. Uriel's eyes were hard, his irises almost as black as his pupils.

"Where do you think the dreams of prophets come from?" he demanded, his breath hot and angry on Sam's face. "They're not just mash-ups of movies and commercials and neurons misfiring, like the rest of you pissants. They are the word of the highest power. And the soul of the saint—Dolores Underwood—is in Heaven now, out of range of little girls who write their revelations out between fashion tips. So where do you think Rachael Loughton got the idea to scribble this down?"

The bell was digging into his forearms—Sam could feel it on his skin like there was no clothing in between, just that freezing metal biting through his flesh, ripping him apart one centimeter at a time. "So, God's telling me to throw myself off the roof," he asked in a whisper.

Uriel drew back just a little, his expression, for one second, almost benevolent. "God isn't _telling_ you to do anything," he said, his voice infinitely soft again. "It's a choice, Sam. It's always a choice. Free will is God's most sacred gift to man." He took another step back, allowing the cold wind to tear at Sam's face again. "Go ahead, call your brother's angel—I won't stop you. Castiel isn't strong enough to defeat Archosias, but he will burn himself to nothing fighting against him—fighting to protect you. And when he fails, the rest of the city will burn, too: your brother and all those other tiny, insignificant beings down there."

He paused to glance over his shoulder at the crowd beneath the courthouse; Sam felt too sick to look down, but he could hear their voices, lifted on a sudden gust of wind, the melody of "What Child Is This" burning in his frozen ears. Uriel's smile twisted with derision.

"Of course, a good person might take steps to prevent that. A good person might step off the ledge and take Archosias down with them. As I said, it's your choice. Call Castiel, and use your last four minutes to fight uselessly against what is already foretold. Or defy your true nature one last time, make this one sincere gesture of selflessness, and just…how did the prophet put it? Oh, yes—take the plunge," Uriel finished, his hands open at his sides. The angel stepped back until he was at the very edge of the roof, backlit by all the lights in the square below, his face swallowed up in shadow. "I'll give you three and a half minutes to think about it," he said. Then he was gone, and Sam was alone on the roof, the snow swirling around his feet and the wind of vanishing wings roaring in his ears.

Sam stared at the empty space where Uriel had been. For one agonizing moment his adrenaline raced under the swell of too many emotions, despair and sadness and anger, strongest of all, that angels would do this, would condone this, that the shining emblems of grace and righteousness he had believed in all his life were in the end so cold and merciless—that he had wasted so much time on his knees praying to beings who had condemned him to Hell before he took his first step or spoke his first word. But in the next second it was all gone, his rage burnt out like a flash fire within him, and he couldn't feel anything but the cold eating at him from all sides, and the weight of the bell in his arms, and the stiffness of his frozen fingers. Sam tipped his head back and looked up at the sky, tracing the patterns of stars over his head, the pinpoints of light so bright and sharp against the darkness that they looked like shards of broken glass. Because it didn't matter what angels were, or what Uriel had said—Dean was somewhere below him, and so was Castiel, and there was nothing he wouldn't do to save them. Hadn't he made that promise, standing under the streetlight the night before, wishing for even the faintest light—to stop Archosias at any cost? And hadn't Castiel himself said that prophecies weren't to be taken lightly? If prophecies were God's way of speaking to humans, maybe this had always been intended.

Doing the right thing had always been so complicated for Sam, such a twisted road of good intentions and desperation and misunderstandings and bloodshed. Maybe someone was giving him the easy way out for once—one last chance to be on the side of the angels.

From the ground far below, he heard the voices of the carolers, straining to lift the high notes of the chorus: _Haste, haste to bring him laud, the babe, the son of Mary._

Sam tightened his arms around the bell; it didn't feel so heavy anymore, and it was almost warm, like the blood he could hear rushing in his ears as he stepped up to the edge of the roof, into Uriel's footprints. He looked down on the city of shining lights and watched the long hand of the clock tick one minute higher. Sam felt his lips twitching up into a small smile.

He could have settled on a memory, for his last thoughts before everything was empty air and vertigo. But as he looked out over the splay of Christmas lights stretching in all directions like a field of fallen stars, he thought about a might-have-been instead—a different life in a different time, with no hunters or prophets or demons or angels, just a house that looked a little like Bobby's and a little like the Gerbers', but had "Winchester" written on the mailbox. Inside were books and papers and dry-clean-only suits and college applications, and all the things that had been thrown away before they ever were—and most of all, striking blue eyes that stared up into his and understood what mistletoe was, and petty concerns about mortgages and whether to buy organic milk, and kisses and cotton pajamas and anniversaries. Sam ducked his head. It was a small life, almost meaningless from an outside perspective—but it was his for a few more precious minutes, and he closed his eyes, pressing the curve of the bell hard against his chest.

He had made Castiel promise to spend Christmas with him. It had never occurred to Sam that he would be the one breaking that promise.

Two minutes.

.x.

The congregation had begun to sing. There were still a few minutes left until the church bells would ring out, proclaiming the crossing into Christmas Day, but the midnight mass had started early, and one of the pastors was leading the worshippers in song, pages flipping in worn hymnbooks lifted from the backs of the pews. Where Castiel knelt in the tower above the transept, the organ drowned out the voices, but the words were familiar to him, after so many centuries, and he could hear them in the gaps between the notes: _Angels from the realm of glory, wing your flight over all the earth; you who sang creation's story, now proclaim Messiah's birth._ Castiel listened for a moment before he rose to his feet, considering the worn leather of the bell case where it lay on the bare tower floor.

He had waited as long as he could for any word from the Winchesters about the last bell—but when less than ten minutes remained before the seals would lose their power and release Archosias, he had returned to the house for the containment vessel and moved it to a holier location. There was a chance that a place like this, a living church with faithful heads bent in prayer at Christmas mass, as close as he could manage to the environment where Archosias had been sealed the first time, would strengthen the bells, perhaps even enough to keep the seals on the ones in this case from breaking at midnight. There was also a chance that the sacredness of the church would not be enough to hold the demon at bay, and that Archosias would manifest here, in the midst of the voices singing of angels; Castiel could only hope that he found a way to stop the beast before it came to that.

All the same, he bent down again and pulled a silver knife from the pocket of his trench coat, cutting easily through the skin of his wrist and then brushing another sigil over the pebbled surface of the box. He was finishing the last line when he heard a voice reaching out to him, Dean's call, as always, unmistakable.

_Cas, you worthless shitball with wings—if you aren't here in the next two seconds I am gonna nail you to a wall by your fucking halo and rip your bones out one at a time—_

Castiel was already moving, the wound on his skin disappearing as he unfurled his wings.

He landed behind Dean on the concrete square in front of the courthouse next to the dry fountain shimmering with streams of white and blue lights arcing into its basin, surrounded on every side by a crush of people in heavy jackets, their voices raised in song. He reached out to lay a hand on the hunter's shoulder, but before he could even say his name Dean had turned around and fisted his hands in the front of Castiel's suit, yanking them face to face.

"Where the fuck is Sam?" Dean demanded at a growl. In the close light, his green eyes were wild, rage and fear and desperation conquering his expression in turn. Castiel frowned, an unsteady beat settling into the rhythm of his pulse.

"We were not together," he said. His wings felt stiff at his back, his muscles tensing with the desire to rise again, to seek an answer to that question. "What has happened?" he asked. Dean released him abruptly and raked a hand through his hair, leaving deep score marks in the short strands.

"Fuck," Dean said under his breath. His next words seemed to be for the angel, as he raised his eyes again, his hands curling into shaking fists at his sides. "Bobby just called. Prophet Prom Queen just posted another dream, about the location of the last bell."

"That is very fortuitous news," Castiel told him, glancing once at the scant few minutes remaining on the courthouse's glowing clock face.

Dean ground his teeth together. "Yeah. Except for the part where in her dream, a really tall guy with hazel eyes drops like a stone off the roof of a building with the bell in hand." Castiel felt his eyes widen, and Dean reached out to grab him again, his fingernails digging into the angel's shoulder. "Bobby called Sam to warn him, and he doesn't know what the hell happened—one minute they're talking, the next the line goes dead. So when I ask you where Sam is, I don't mean in ten minutes, I mean right the fuck now. Where is he?"

Before Dean had even finished speaking, Castiel's grace was flaring out in all directions, searching for any trace of the younger Winchester—then his head whipped up, his eyes flying to the top of the courthouse, where he could just make out a figure pressed against the blackness of the sky. But that wasn't the only darkness he had felt; the presence of Archosias was overwhelming, as it had been the first time they stepped into the church, stronger than should have been possible from one bell, and already he could feel it drowning out his sense of Sam, enveloping him, as if it intended to swallow him whole. Castiel drew a breath that lodged in his throat.

"Sam," he whispered. Then he opened his wings and ascended, the cold air snapping into the space of his absence.

The roof was silent and dark, except for the wind, howling in his ears like a living thing. Castiel intended to land only a step behind Sam, close enough to reach out to him, but the essence of the demon forced him back; he touched down in the center of the roof instead, in a circle of broken snow, two sets of footprints stretching away from him to the place where Sam stood, his back turned, a dark void against the spread of city lights. Castiel's wings churned behind him as he took a step forward.

"Sam," he said again, louder this time.

For a moment, Sam didn't move. When at last he did turn around, Castiel could see that his features were set, an edge of sadness outweighing the soft upward curve of his lips. The shadows were so deep over his face that his eyes seemed to hold no color. The bell was pressed into the folds of his coat, and as Castiel's eyes flickered over the heavy golden shape Sam's arms tightened around it, burying the curve in the soft flesh of his stomach. The essence of Archosias shifted, edging ever closer. Sam pressed his lips together.

"I'm sorry," he said. The words were so quiet that Castiel wondered for an instant if he had heard them at all, and then he wondered what they meant, and why something had clenched so horribly in his chest at the sound of them. Sam shook his head slowly back and forth. "I didn't want you to be here—not for this part."

Castiel looked down at the bell again. He could see it now, the long crack set into the curve of the metal, the fissure in the seal through which Archosias was rising, one wisp of darkness at a time; Sam's blood was on his hands, and on the surface of the bell, too, dull against the gold that gleamed softly even now, tucked into the hollow of Sam's chest. And Archosias stretched out above him, licking the wind, circling something he could not have. The air around them felt tenuous, and Castiel found he was holding his breath as he inched another step forward, the snow crackling under the sole of his shoe.

"You must give that to me, Sam," he said softly. Sam only laughed, barely a puff of air that turned white the instant it left his lips.

"Sorry," he repeated. "Somebody already explained it to me."

Castiel felt his chest constrict, as if his vessel were suddenly too small for him, the ragged beat of his borrowed heart pounding in his ears as he tried to move forward once more. "Sam, there is very little time—"

"Stop."

Castiel halted halfway through a step, his gaze riveted on the tread of Sam's boot as the young man slid his right foot backward until his heel was dangling in the air, his balance so precarious that a brush of wind might have sent him spiraling down. But the wind had died, leaving them alone on the roof, except for the specter of Archosias, growing ever stronger and more solid, a dark mantle across Sam's shoulders. Sam was still shaking his head, his fingers turning white against the surface of the bell. His hazel eyes reflected a flash of light as they lifted to lock with Castiel's, and for the first time the angel caught a glimpse of the ache in them—a hurt so deep it took his breath away.

"Just stop," Sam was saying. "It's too late. You can't stop Archosias anymore, but I can—I know what I have to do."

Castiel did not have to ask what he meant. It was obvious what Sam intended, what he was preparing to do—sacrifice always looked the same on humans, the softness of their eyes, the moment of suspension at the edge of a precipice, awaiting the inevitable fall. Castiel had understood nothing about sacrifice until he met Sam Winchester. Meeting Sam had taught him that some sacrifices were unacceptable.

"There are other ways," he said. He longed to close the distance between them but didn't dare to take another step. Sam let his head fall to one side.

"What other ways, Cas?" he asked. But the question seemed insincere, and his voice only sounded tired, his decision already made. "Archosias gets out, and then you kill yourself trying to bring him down?"

"That is what I am here for, Sam," Castiel replied. His voice was rougher now, his true voice bleeding through as his heartbeat drummed in his ears. "That is what I was assigned to this mission to do. That is my chance to take."

Sam ducked his head. "Yeah, well, sorry—I got here first, so I'm the one who gets to be selfish about this."

For a moment neither of them spoke, Sam staring at his shoes and Castiel watching every flicker on his face, searching for the words to make Sam understand that he would writhe and shatter, that he would set his wings on fire and watch them burn before he would let anything happen to Sam, before he would let Archosias claim the one precious thing whose loss he could not tolerate. Because he had been given these wings to save Sam Winchester, and if they could not do that, then all the millennia he had carried them were for nothing. But he could not find words for any of it, not in a tongue that Sam would understand—he stepped forward again and Sam slid his foot back, only the toes of his right foot resting on the edge of the roof. Castiel breathed in sharply.

"Sam," he tried, and realized, for the first time in his eternal existence, that he was pleading.

Sam crushed the bell against his chest and squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, they were brighter, glistening in the glow of far-off Christmas lights. Castiel felt the demon presence growing around him and tightening its claws, a mass of blackness spread out against the sky, blocking out the stars one by one. Sam's lips twitched up at the corners.

"Cas, it's okay," he promised, shaking his head once. "I've got this. It's going to be all right."

On the earth below them, the carolers were singing of a silent night, their voices barely a whisper in the still air. Castiel tipped his head to one side.

"It is not all right, Sam," he murmured. "It would never be all right to lose you."

Sam opened his mouth. Then suddenly the night was a cacophony of chimes, as every bell in every church in the city rang out at once, marking the stroke of midnight. In an instant the bell in Sam's arms had split in half, the crack fracturing the metal the rest of the way. All of a sudden Archosias was thick in the air around them, the shadows straining with the shape of stretching wings and snapping flesh, the essence of the demon as yet unformed, scattered as dust, but so heavy that Castiel struggled to keep his feet. Sam let out a long, slow breath as his eyes found the angel's. Then he closed them and stepped back, off the roof, and the world plunged into darkness, every single light in the city going out at once.

For a tenth, a fifteenth, a thousandth of a second, Castiel couldn't move, couldn't even breathe, his mind locked on the image of Sam slipping backward into the tunnel of dripping black jaws. Then his grace was on fire within him, blazing like an inferno, and it pushed the darkness back from him as the world lit up again, every light in the streets below burning brighter than before as his wings shivered open at his back. Instantly Castiel was off the ground, his wings sweeping the darkness aside, and everywhere they collided, the particles of demon energy, the essence that was not yet Archosias, ignited in a cleansing fire; Castiel could feel the burning against his wings, too, the pulse of too much grace rushing through his system all at once, levels of power never meant to be accessed from within a vessel—but it didn't matter, because nothing mattered but Sam, and there was nothing Castiel would not do to save him.

He surged over the edge of the roof in a shower of glass—the strings of lights between the courthouse and the ground were shining too brightly, and the bulbs burst as he thundered past them, his arms outstretched. Archosias was fighting back now, the part of him that had been trapped for so long in that bell tearing at Castiel's wings with shadow teeth, howling in his ears. Castiel barely felt him. It was the grace that was almost too much to bear, too much for his vessel to contain, burning in his lungs like the cold of the shrieking air. Castiel could only grit his teeth against it, ignore the shudder in his bones. Sam was still falling, the darkest concentration of Archosias waiting like eager jaws beneath his plummeting form, and for an instant Castiel felt the crush of doubt, the fear that Uriel had been right and this was not something he could do. Then he realized that Sam's eyes were open and staring up at him, and in them he saw the reflection of the enormous shadows of his wings spread out against the white face of the courthouse.

The bulbs were snapping along the lines, but Castiel didn't hear them anymore—he heard nothing but the last breath Sam had taken before he dropped into the darkness, and the beating of his wings, pushing him faster and faster.

Sam was the sacrifice he could not make—not for man, and not for Heaven, and never for himself.

He had almost reached Sam when he realized suddenly that he was coming in too fast, with too much grace coursing through his body, and that if he touched Sam like this, he was going to burn him alive, and land with nothing but bleached bones in his arms. Castiel seized all of the grace inside of him and forced every scrap of it out of his vessel, into his wings. The burst of pain along his spine was so severe he thought his body would split in two, but just as quickly the agony was receding, his wings surging with power they had never held before—and then Sam was there, within reach, and he was stretching out his arms, praying the grace had left him cool enough to touch.

Such an incredibly fragile thing that he loved.

There was no time to tell Sam to close his eyes. Castiel slipped one arm under his legs and the other into his long hair, and then he pressed Sam's face down into his shoulder, cradling the tall body against his. His wings slammed into the swirl of Archosias bursting with grace, and for an instant everything was on fire, a billow of white flame racing out from him and igniting every trace of demon energy. Archosias was a howl in the freezing wind, and then he was nothing but ash, the last of his essence slipping away from Sam as Castiel pulled up, his wings driving them up into the sky, bright as a pillar of light. Then the night snapped and everything was silence again, nothing but the last of the church bells ringing through the darkness.

Castiel set them down gently on the roof of the courthouse once more, leaving a new set of footprints in the hard circle of snow. For a moment neither of them moved, and Castiel found that he could hardly even breathe, his wings shuddering at his back as his grace settled down within him. Then Sam pushed back against his hand, and pulled away just far enough to meet his eyes, confusion and wonder and so many other things the angel couldn't place flickering over his face.

"Cas…" Sam breathed. "Archosias…how did you…"

Castiel tightened his hold on Sam, this being that was so fragile and so precious and so irreplaceable, the only being he had ever loved.

"I will always catch you, Sam," he promised.

Sam stared up at him, his lips parted in an unasked question. Then his head tipped back and his eyes slipped shut, and in a moment the young man was unconscious in his arms, all of the exhaustion he had been pushing back for days suddenly pulling him under. Castiel tucked Sam's head back against his shoulder and felt his own form relaxing, a tiny smile rising to the corners of his lips.

He needed to find Dean, he knew, and then he would have to explain a great deal to the older Winchester, and allow Dean to pull Sam from his arms. But for a long moment, he just stood where he was, holding Sam against him and feeling the strong heartbeat in the other man's chest, and watching the last ash of the battle blow away on the wind, white as falling snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter to go. Thanks, everyone, for reading this far.


	26. Finale: December 25

**December 25**

Cas was on TV. Not Cas the creepy fucker in a trench coat with a five o'clock shadow smeared like dirt over his jawline—Dean never expected to see that guy on the evening news unless it was in a story announcing a manhunt—but Cas the badass angel of the Lord with the shadows of his enormous fuck-off wings splashed all over the courthouse. The video was blurry at best, the kind of thing Dean would assume was faked if he hadn't been standing right there, wondering if the battle between Heaven and Hell was about to smash down on him and a hundred grimy hippies—all the same, Dean flopped down on the couch in the living room and unmuted the TV, upping the volume until he could hear the moderately hot announcer over the corny Christmas CD Sam had put on while they gobbled down takeout Chinese.

"…was it a prank, a hoax, or a true Christmas miracle?" the anchor was saying. "Eyewitnesses are reporting that the wings in this clip appeared only moments after a power outage that lasted less than a second but happened simultaneously citywide. Authorities at the Boulder County Courthouse have issued a statement insisting that they did not approve the demonstration, and asking anyone with information to come forward…"

"Keep dreaming, sister," Dean said under his breath. He glanced over his shoulder down the hallway toward the master bedroom, but Cas and Sam were still hiding out in there apparently; he had no idea what they were up to, but he wasn't really surprised to be left out—it was the same old at this point.

Dean had been out of his head in the seconds before that power outage—Bobby hadn't been much better, and he'd been yelling at Dean the whole time to tell him what was going on, which was tough when Dean himself had no fucking clue. One minute Cas was stranding him on the courthouse steps with a yard full of cheerful hippies, and the next the whole street was lit up like the goddamn Fourth of July, and Castiel was doing his shadow puppet routine on the side of the building. Dean hadn't had time to pick his jaw up off the freezing concrete yet when Castiel had appeared next to him, looking like Superman with a six-foot-four Lois Lane passed out in his arms. Dean's brain had been spinning so fast he hadn't even given the angel any crap about it—just shoved Sam in the car and took off for the Gerbers' while Cas disappeared, briefly, probably to airlift the bells back to Heaven so that they didn't have to shoot off any more fireworks. One shaky YouTube video of Christmas angels was probably enough.

For a guy who was usually about as subtle as a sledgehammer to the back of the head, Castiel had been really annoyingly vague about what happened on the roof; Sam had been even vaguer, when he finally woke up from a twelve-hour power coma at about noon that day, but Dean sort of expected that from his little brother, because Sam had always been a dodgy sucker. Being left in the dark pissed him off more than a little, but he had enough of the pieces to guess that Sam had probably done something really stupid, and the wing display had been Castiel saving his brother's ass, not just showing off for the grassroots crowd. That had bought the angel at least twenty-four hours of goodwill, Dean had decided, and he hadn't even thrown a fit when the two disappeared into the master bedroom, which he'd let Sam have the night before since he was still unconscious when they'd rolled into the Gerbers' driveway. But they'd been in there for like ten minutes now, and it was getting ridiculous. Dean kicked the girly snowflake blanket Sam had been using all month off the end of the couch and then seized a snowman pillow, settling it behind his head. If they were banging in there, he was going to be pissed—he still had to sleep on that bed at least one more night before they got the fuck out of Dodge.

His cell phone buzzing on the coffee table pulled Dean's thoughts away from the closed bedroom door, and he leaned forward to scoop it up, cutting off the Grinch ringtone. "Bobby," he greeted. "If you're calling to check on Sam again, I'm hanging up—it's been like two hours."

"He went off a building, Dean," Bobby griped. "And then he slept for half a day without so much as a groan. I think I'm entitled to a few phone calls."

Bobby was in a pissy mood, apparently—Dean could practically feel the older hunter's spit spraying his face through the phone. He fought back the urge to wipe his cheek. "Yeah, yeah—fine. Here's your status update. Sammy's fine, we ate like twenty pounds of Chinese food, and I even got half a beer in him before he and Cas disappeared somewhere. They're still being a secretive pair of fuckers," Dean added. He had more to say on that subject, but Bobby just sighed, apparently tired of hearing it.

"For crying out loud, boy. It's Christmas. Your brother's alive, even though a _prophet of the Lord_ saw him take a swan dive off that roof—you want to lay off a little already?"

Bobby was always taking Sam's side in the end. Dean didn't need a lecture right now, though, so he cut the older hunter off before he could really hit his stride, absently turning the volume down on the TV again. "Yeah, whatever. Hey, did you get that picture I sent you of your present?"

"I am not wearing that," Bobby told him flatly.

"Oh, come on!" Dean protested. He kicked at a box under the table, knocking the new apron out onto the floor and grinning at the bright red words. "'Show me your buns and I'll show you my dog'? That's classic. Where's your sense of humor?"

"Dead as of 11:53 yesterday night," Bobby grumbled over the phone.

Dean wasn't paying much attention to him anymore, though, because the bedroom door had squeaked open and Sam and Cas were finally making an appearance again, heading in his direction down the hall. Cas had been wearing his normal trench coat all day, but he was down to just his white button-down shirt and black slacks now, which sort of pissed Dean off on principle—at least all his buttons still looked angel-perfect, so Sam had probably just talked the clothes off of him instead of going for a more hands-on approach. Sam was smiling, and he looked less like a zombie than he had in days, which was good because Dean had been worried that pretty soon he was going to have to pull a salt-and-burn on his own undead little brother—way more importantly, though, Sam had a present under his arm, topped with a squashed blue bow, and Dean had a pretty good idea who it was for. He kicked his way up from the couch and met the pair at the top of the stairs.

"Hey, Bobby—you really want to know how Sam is? Why don't you talk to the growth that's been attached to his side for the last four weeks." He put his hand over the earpiece to muffle the sounds of Bobby cursing his bones, and then he held the phone out to Castiel, nodding his head toward Harold Gerber's office, which had everything an office should have except a box of illegal Cubans. "Here, Cas," he said. "I need you to take this phone into the office and talk to Bobby for no less than twenty minutes. Not nineteen—the full twenty, no matter how many times you have to hit the redial button. You got me?"

Cas looked at the phone like it was a barracuda ready to gnaw his face off, but in the end he reached out for it, holding it carefully up to his ear as he walked away. "Hello. Yes. No, I am not allowed to return the phone yet." Sam gave him a look, the bitchface trademarked for the stunts he pulled on their clueless guardian angel—but what the hell was the point of having a jester around 24/7 if he couldn't even get anything out of it? Dean just reached out and slung an arm over his brother's shoulders.

"C'mon, Sammy. Present time. Did you get me porn again this year?"

Sam switched gears to another bitchface, but Dean didn't mind this one as much—this one meant Sam was going to give him what he wanted, he just preferred to whine about it first.

The flat box under Sam's arm was not stuffed full of porn, which sort of sucked, since Dean was definitely in withdrawal after a month in Gerber rehab—instead the older Winchester pulled back the paper to find a pair of brown leather gloves, which felt soft enough to tell him they were expensive. Dean held them up to the light and squinted at the wool inside.

"Cool. Serial killer gloves."

Sam slapped him on the shoulder—a very weak and girly slap that Dean only decided to let pass because his brother had been in a very weak and girly faint for most of the last day. "They're driving gloves," Sam insisted. Dean shrugged.

"Multipurpose gloves, then," he said. When Sam rolled his eyes like an angsty, misunderstood teenager, Dean reached out and popped him in the shoulder—with a manly punch, obviously. "Thanks," he offered, since one word was usually enough to squeak under the chick flick radar. Sam's gooey eyes were about to push them over, though, so Dean switched tacks fast, stepping back to slap his gloves down on the dining room table. "If you wanted me to know they were driving gloves, you should've gotten me a driving sock, too," he said.

Sam just blinked. "A what?"

Now it was Dean's turn to roll his eyes, because surely he'd taken the time to teach Sam these things at a critical stage in his life. "A driving sock. To shove down my pants."

Dean was pretty sure he'd seen that bitchface on the neutered Chihuahua across the street. Fortunately, it was gone a second later, when Sam opened his present and looked up at Dean with a confused Pug expression instead.

"Dude, you got me a box of two hundred lighters?" Sam asked, lifting a little red one out and rolling it over in his hand. Dean laughed as he set the box down next to his gloves.

"Nah, not really. I mean, those are for us, yeah—we tore through our last box a few weeks ago. But no, that's not your present. Here."

Dean had tucked Sam's real present under the coffee table next to Bobby's apron. He'd even gotten it gift-wrapped at the sissy mom store, which he'd been able to stand in for exactly eleven minutes before he felt his manhood starting to degrade, and then he'd found a green bow the size of a honey-baked ham to stick on top, along with his brother's name written in Sharpie. But apparently there was just no pleasing some people, because Sam had barely pulled back the corner of the paper before he was shooting Dean another one of his preteen glares, holding the present away from him like he was afraid to be infected by whatever Dean had.

"You stole me the Gerbers' snowflake blanket?"

"What? No! I bought you your own snowflake blanket," Dean said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the pile of white and blue stuffed down next to the couch. "You always complain about being cold when we sleep in the car, but you seemed pretty damn happy to chill on this couch for a month, so…"

For a second Sam's expression got all murky, like Dean had missed something—it was gone again just as quick, though, and Sam finished pulling the paper back, holding up the puffy white fleece and inspecting it from all sides. "And you left the '50% Off' sticker on it, too," his pain-in-the-ass little brother remarked, his tone dry like it always was when he thought he was being funny. "So thoughtful, Dean."

Dean just snorted. "Hey, I wasn't gonna pay full price for that piece of crap. And I spent the rest of the money on those lighters, so it's not like you didn't get it in the end. Greedy little bastard."

Sam was shaking his head, giving him the patented you're-an-idiot-and-I-don't-know-how-we-share-DNA look—but he was also smiling, and Dean was happy with that, because he hadn't seen his brother smiling at him in at least three days, and that was too fucking long. Sam reached around him to set the snowflake abomination on the table, too, and then drew back, tucking that same girly strand of hair behind his ear.

"Thanks, Dean."

Dean knew what came next in the annual holiday gift-giving sapfest: the issue of the Christmas hug. Sam had his doe eyes out in full force and was shuffling his feet like he was going to go for it, and usually this was the part where Dean sidestepped his gigantor brother or suggested more alcohol, in the hopes that they could all be falling down drunk before anybody had to touch anybody else. But for once he stood his ground, and then held out his arms to the side and just let Sam barrel on in—because fuck it, it was Christmas, and they were both alive, their bellies full of six-pack beer and mushu pork, and Dean could be charitable for an hour before he drank himself into a nose-dive and then crashed like a galaxy destroyer.

It was only one day, after all.

.x.

Sam stumbled a little under his brother's weight, reaching out a hand to brace against the wall of the long hallway leading to the master bedroom. His hand slid against a framed picture of an eerily lifelike snowman, knocking it askew, and Dean muttered something about melting the fucker with Tina's hairdryer. The tall hunter just shook his head a small smile playing at the corner of his lips and hoisted Dean's arm to wrap more securely around his neck.

His brother had been running on fumes for as long as Sam had these past few days, plus all the hours Sam had been sleeping, or passed out—there wasn't a consensus between his brother and the angel about that one, and last he'd heard Dean was waiting for Bobby to weigh in.

Dean had gotten drunk, torn into the boxes of Chinese food like the great famine was coming, and then passed out into a fat snowman pillow and started drooling onto its eye. Sam couldn't have cared less about Frosty. Castiel had told Sam in a low voice over Dean's sprawled form that the hunter had barely left Sam's side the entire time he had been unconscious, sitting on the edge of the Gerbers' bed and alternating between giving Sam words of encouragement and very explicit threats.

Sam shook his head, his long hair sliding into his face as he turned to look at his brother. Dean's eyes were at half-mast, with the lids slipping down every few seconds and remaining glued to his cheeks longer and longer. Sam had opted to rouse him from the couch long enough to help him stumble to the master bedroom. And Dean had grouched, and cussed out the snowman as the carrot nose went directly into his eye when he tried to roll over and ignore him. In the end they were walking together, with Dean's hand gripping Sam's neck at moments when his eyes fell open enough for him to watch his footsteps, and the tall hunter half carrying him the rest.

Dean deserved to be carried from time to time, too. Sam was certain that Castiel would have been more than willing to lift his brother and bear him to his destination, just as he was certain that Dean would resist adamantly if he tried. His brother counted on him, and in moments like this, with the warm air rushing out of the heaters and sleep hanging in the air, Sam didn't really want it any other way.

The door to the bedroom wasn't closed all the way, and Sam lifted a foot, pushing it open gently. It creaked on its hinges, making Dean's eyes shoot wide for one moment under his crazy mess of hair, and he shook Sam off finally, stumbling his way forward to fall face first onto the thick white and blue comforter. The entire bed, from the down blankets to the memory foam, seemed to rise up to swallow him.

Sam felt something warm in his heart watching his brother wiggle toward the center, dragging at whatever covers he could grab and burying his face into the pillows. It was the same warm feeling that he had gotten from Dean's gift—more thoughtful than porn but still undeniably accompanied by that particular brand of older brother mocking. It was the warmth of those hands, roughened by years of holding a gun, fixing a car, and taking care of Sam. The tall hunter walked over to the side of the bed where nothing more than the top of his brother's head poked out by this point. He reached a hand down to straighten the edge of the blanket, more for the chance to feel the solid form resting under the covers one last time than anything else.

"Merry Christmas, Dean," he whispered, watching the lump roll over, the feet kicking back and forth to warm up the sheets. "Sleep well."

Sam backed away slowly, only pausing for a moment to lean down where the brown coat he had been wearing the day before was tossed in a careless heap on the floor. The edge of the wrapped blue box was jutting from the corner of the pocket. Sam removed it carefully, tugging at the ribbons that had been flattened lying between the heavy material and the carpet.

His socked feet were almost silent against the floor. The bedroom door closed with a soft click, and then the only sound was the soft swishing of his footsteps. The package didn't look as pretty with part of the blue paper scuffed up, and the silver ribbon irreparably bent. Sam let his fingers slide along the edge.

It had survived somehow, though—that was the amazing thing, and no matter what shape it was in, he still wanted to give it to Cas. Sam paused in the hallway, straightening the picture he had knocked askew and staring at the coal-black eyes. He hadn't managed to give the angel the present before, but maybe that was because it had been complicated by hopes, and bells, and especially mistletoe.

The tall hunter swallowed away something uncomfortable. He had thought that he was wrapping his heart when he had turned the box round and round in his hands, and there was no taking it out now, but maybe he had been going about this all wrong. He should have given Castiel the present much earlier, with a smile, a casual touch—as a friend.

Sam fiddled with the frame for a moment longer, but then accepted that it would probably always be crooked and took a deep breath, heading back toward the living room with renewed determination. Because it wasn't too late.

When Sam rounded the corner he was surprised to find that the lights were off and the tree had been turned on, its little lights twinkling through the twilight. Castiel straightened from behind the green branches, turning to look at Sam as his steps slowed in the entrance. _Friends_ was a beautiful word, and Sam wasn't quite sure why it seemed to stick somewhere in the vicinity of his heart.

It wasn't really dark enough yet for the tree. The sun had just started to sink, the last of its rays shining through the windows with a golden glow, but Sam found his gaze lingering on the soft bulbs, tracing their pattern as he had so many nights with the angel so close Sam's outstretched fingers brushed his leg where he sat. They kept ending up right here in this room, with these lights, Sam reaching out, Cas reaching out, and the rest of the world plunging into darkness.

"Cas."

Sam's voice was soft, but the word drew the angel toward him, the same magnetism that Sam himself seemed unable to resist, no matter how many times he warned himself of the outcome. _Friends,_ he reminded himself, clearing his throat and sitting down on the edge of the couch. The coffee table had been pushed almost to the TV, and the tall hunter had cleared away the boxes of takeout before his brother could put a red-painted toenail into the remains of the lo mein. Now it seemed like there was too much space somehow, and Sam had nowhere to set the gift in his hands.

"So, Dean's asleep," he informed the angel as Castiel sat down next to him. He was too far to lean against, but maybe too close to turn and look at without leaning in toward blue eyes. The distance was impossible to judge, because Sam wasn't sure his heart had really understood the meaning of friendship. And he suddenly wasn't sure he really wanted that.

Just sitting next to Cas made his heart skip strangely. His toes wiggled against the carpet, and every nerve in his entire body tingled with the urge to move closer, promised that bliss was just six inches away. Sam bit his lip.

"I didn't get a chance earlier with all the…you know…" The tall hunter trailed off, glancing over and meeting blue eyes for just a second before he focused on the damaged present in his hands. "Well, anyway—I have a Christmas present for you, Cas." He lifted the little package from his lap.

Castiel looked down, studying the box before his gaze lifted to find Sam's. His brows were drawn together and his head tilted slightly.

"I do not have anything for you," the angel said. His voice was flat, but Sam thought he could sense another emotion somewhere in that tone—or maybe he was just wishing it was there.

The irony was that he had once told Cas that with love—real love—you just know, no matter who you are, no matter where you are. He just hadn't thought he was talking about himself. But there was no denying that the word _friend_ had become impossibly too restricting, and his heart was running away again. Running from all Sam's good sense, and toward the angel.

"Well," Sam said, smiling and pressing the present into the angel's hands, "you saved my life, you know…so that can probably count as my present this year." His tone was playful, and Castiel's eyes lingered on the curve of his lips as he took the gift. "Open it," Sam urged, letting his socked foot slide closer to the angel's.

"Thank you, Sam," Castiel said, turning the box upside down and pulling the paper away. The tall hunter waited with a giddy anticipation, holding his breath in with the swirling butterflies. The paper was set aside on the couch and Castiel turned the cardboard box back over to stare at the cover, which depicted a small black flip phone, little white bubbles pointing out the features.

Sam had gotten Cas the simplest prepaid cell phone he could find, and then called in enough cards to fill it with eight hours' worth of minutes. He would have to show the angel how to use it, but that was the part Sam was looking forward to the most.

The angel had a look of concentration, and Sam scooted a few inches closer to lay a finger on the picture of the phone, tapping it twice.

"It's a cell, Cas—like the ones we have," he breathed. "So that, you know…you can stay in touch." The words tumbled out one after another, and Sam couldn't quite pinpoint the reason his heart was hammering so wildly—only that he was trying to bridge that distance between them again, hold onto some human bond.

The box lowered in Cas's hands, coming to rest against his thighs, and his head lifted to show an unreadable expression. Was it curiosity on the angel's face? Emotion? Hope?

"Sam," he said slowly, "prayer is a far more effective means of communication for angels."

Sam's heart plunged into ice. There was something in Castiel's eyes, something in his voice maybe, but it wasn't what Sam wanted. He nodded almost mechanically.

"I have no need of this," the angel finished.

Sam had no idea what expression he had on—a blank mask, maybe—but inside his ribs were squeezing too tight against his chest, and a burn had started in the back of his throat. _No need._ The words echoed around in Sam's head—or maybe it was his heart. After all, it took a vast, empty space to create an echo.

"Right. Of course." The empty words fell from his lips, and he reached shaking hands out to wrap his fingers around the little box, pulling it from the angel's loose grip. From the very start, maybe the distance had just been too wide—one tiny human looking up at the sparkling dots in the sky and imagining he could touch a star. Sam tried to force a smile onto his lips as wetness stung behind his eyes. "I mean, it's a human thing, right?" he said in a dismissive tone that made him want to cringe away from himself. "Needing things."

And Sam had meant to tell Cas something else, to say something that had the word _friendship_ in it but didn't sound bitter, but his traitorous heart had different plans. He squeezed the phone between his fingers.

"You were here this whole time, Cas," Sam whispered, shaking his head back and forth. "But you're still so far away." His emotions were too close to the surface, with none of his usual protections—no wall of lies, no convenient retreat, no quick escape from the pain. He had set out with the knowledge that he might break his heart over this, and now it was time to do it.

Castiel looked uncertain, the empty hand where the present had rested curling closed as his eyes searched Sam's face. "I am right here, Sam."

"But you're not, are you?" Sam felt the first warm tear sliding down his cheek, followed by another and another. He lifted a hand, reaching it toward the angel. Cas tipped his head slightly as Sam's hand hovered by his jaw, but in the end the hunter thrust his fingers into the space behind him—the empty space where his wings were—and as his fingers reached desperately into the air, Sam felt nothing, not even the barest brush against his heart.

He had thought he'd seen the Castiel's wings finally, for one long moment, as he hung suspended in the air, falling from the roof. The great shadows of feathers had spread across the courthouse, but there had been something else too, shining through the blackness of the demon. Something real—something that Sam could almost feel, as Castiel's body slammed into him, starting his heart beating again.

His fingers were empty now, and Castiel's eyes had darkened, filling with something that looked like the beginning of an apology to Sam. He didn't want that.

"I'm not even close, am I?" He withdrew his hand slowly, letting it hang suspended for a moment before dropping. He could feel the tears coursing down his face, blurring the form of the angel. There was no _sorry_ in a broken heart—nothing but a waterfall of tears that had to empty from the overflowing ocean of the heart before the tide could recede.

Sam offered the angel a watery smile. He could see concern on Castiel's face, or maybe some amount of pain, and even though it hurt it was a genuine smile.

"We had a lot of moments, Cas," he told the other man. "Beautiful moments…human moments." Sam tasted salt in his mouth with the words, and he moved his fingers forward, just enough to touch the very edge of the angel's white shirt. "But the thing about moments is that they don't last—they pass us by." He took hold of the white material between his fingers. Cas's eyes traveled from the hand to Sam's tears, and for once the angel's emotions were right there, but too hazy for Sam to read.

"Sam…" Castiel said, his voice rough and low. Sam's fingertips tugged against the white fabric and he squeezed his eyes shut against the sound.

"No, Cas, just…" Sam looked up, releasing the tight grip with a soft sigh. "This is a moment, passing us by. My whole life is going to be just a moment in the end, passing you by."

The tears were so wet they were choking Sam, drowning him, but he made no effort to stop their flow, letting the warm wetness cover his cheeks and fall around him. He wanted to let it go, wanted to stop his own heart, leave it somewhere else for just a moment and remember how to use his head, but Sam was a wave unable to stop breaking himself against the same shore over and over.

"I want this so badly, Cas," he told the angel, tipping his head to look up pleadingly at something beyond both of them. "But I can't have it, can I?" The tears slowed finally back to single drops, chasing each other from his eyes one at a time. "Because you don't want this…or maybe you just don't need me."

Sam looked down at the box in his hands. In spite of everything, it was a question on his lips, bated breath in his lungs, and his heart he was holding out to Castiel, asking him to break it one more time.

.x.

Castiel's hands ached. He had not known what to do with the cell phone box, but its absence was excruciating, the emptiness tangible as his fingers rested, half curled, in his lap, his eyes locked on Sam. One of Sam's hands was still just brushing his sleeve, a grip so tenuous Castiel would never have dared to break it, but the other was wrapped around the box in his lap, his long fingers clinging to the cardboard corner as if searching for something to anchor him. Castiel longed to reach out and take it back, but he had missed his chance, and he was not sure Sam would give it to him anymore. For a long moment he sat helplessly next to everything he wanted, watching the tears on Sam's face glitter like broken glass in the hushed light.

_Need_. It was such a human concept. It had taken Castiel a long time to understand that when humans said they needed something, they did not mean only air and water and shelter from the dark, the things that kept their hearts beating; that more often they meant abstract things— _freedom_ , _purpose_ , _faith_ , _love_ —and most often, they meant each other. Angels did not need anything, but that was no longer true of him. Castiel understood it now—that deepest kind of need. He felt the ache of it in his bones every time he looked at Sam Winchester.

Another tear slid down the soft curve of Sam's jaw, and Castiel felt the answering clench in his chest; the force had been so strong, in the moment when Sam first began crying, that the angel had thought his vessel was collapsing, his ribs suddenly caving into the hollowness of his lungs. Now he realized that the physical pain was secondary, only a reaction to the desperation pulsing like a heartbeat in his ears, racing with the need to soothe him. Castiel had seen Sam cry before, but he didn't remember ever being the cause. The sensation was almost unbearable.

_You don't want this. You don't need me._ It still amazed Castiel, after all this time, how humans could be so certain of things about which they were so wrong.

Castiel reached out to lay two hesitant fingers on top of the cell phone box; Sam didn't stop him from taking it, but his hand clenched into a loose fist as soon as the angel lifted it away, his breath rattling in his unsteady lungs. Castiel studied the front of the package again. He did not understand all of the words written there, bright red letters explaining about minutes and rates and battery life—but he understood the words in the bottom right corner, next to a picture of a smiling woman with dark eyes: _The easiest way to stay connected, no matter where you are._ Castiel set the box down behind him and glanced up in time to see another tear roll down Sam's cheek, wavering for a moment at his chin before falling into the weave of his cream-colored sweater. The expression on his face was so open, so resigned, and it cut right through Castiel's vessel to the center of his being, leaving him breathless and sore.

Castiel had never truly understood the term _heartbreak_. He thought he did now.

"You are wrong, Sam."

The soft words lifted Sam's head, and he blinked back at the angel, the motion shaking another tear loose from the corner of his eye. Castiel watched it slide down the curve of his cheekbone and vowed he would not let one more fall.

"What?" Sam asked. His voice was rough and dry, and his eyebrows drew together, his expression drowning in so much sadness and doubt. Castiel tipped his head to one side.

"You are wrong," he repeated, just as quietly. "I do need you, Sam."

He longed to reach out and take Sam's hand, or at least to rest his palm over the warm crests of his knuckles, to still Sam's shaking hands—but he did not know if the touch was welcome, so he held himself back, unwilling to hurt Sam any more than he already had. Perhaps if he understood human emotions as more than vague intuition, a conflict of sense and reason at the edge of his comprehension—if he knew what he had missed, in that moment under the mistletoe, when the whole world had seemed to be holding its breath—he wouldn't have done so much harm in the first place.

Sam exhaled into a small sigh. It was such a soft sound, barely strong enough to carry across the six inches between them, but it was all Castiel needed to know that Sam did not believe him. The young man squeezed his eyes shut and then shook his head, his chin dropping as his hands tightened into fists.

"Cas, please—you don't have to—"

"Sam," Castiel broke in. Sam stopped at once, as he always did, whenever Castiel said his name, but he kept his head bowed, his gaze fixed resolutely on his lap. Castiel breathed out and found it impossible to breathe in again, the expression on Sam's face sinking like a physical weight into the depths of himself. "Sam, I would like you to look at me. Please," he murmured—the second time in two days that he had been left with nothing but prayer.

Sam lifted his head slowly. Castiel had intended to take nothing he was not offered, to be infinitely gentle with this fragile creature he had hurt so easily—but Sam's eyes coming open sent a tear spiraling down his face, and in that instant Castiel found that he had lost control of himself, one hand rising to cup the slope of Sam's cheek and catch the tear with the pad of his thumb. Sam blinked twice and Castiel watched his eyelashes brush his face, each black curve striking against his shimmering wet skin; it was a beauty he never wanted to see again, if the price was Sam broken open like this. Castiel pressed his lips together.

"If you had perished in the battle with Archosias, my life would have ended as well," he said simply. He heard Sam's breath catch in his throat.

"Cas…"

The word broke and Sam let it hang, staring back at Castiel with wide hazel eyes. He still sounded uncertain, his expression wavering—but he was leaning toward Castiel now, just a tiny slant to his body, just enough to tell the angel he was listening. Castiel traced his thumb over Sam's cheekbone and watched those eyes flicker closed, sending one more tear spiraling down the other side of his face; Castiel slid his hand down to cradle the young man's jaw and caught it at the corner of Sam's mouth, wiping it softly away with the backs of his fingers. He breathed in and the inhale throbbed in his chest—so much pressure and tension he barely understood.

"I lived an eternity before I met you, Sam. But that eternity is meaningless now. All time without you is meaningless," he said, resting his thumb against Sam's trembling lips. Sam shook his head softly.

"I don't understand," he whispered. He leaned in just a little farther, so that their knees brushed together at the edge of the couch; Castiel glanced down at the soft abrasion of cloth and bone as a frown crossed his face.

Human words were so insubstantial, so changeable, and no matter how simple or straightforward they never seemed to convey what he wanted. He wanted Sam to feel everything that he meant, everything that he felt, the way that he felt it, in the breathlessness between every heartbeat and the throbbing of his bones at every place they touched. It wasn't enough for Sam to understand—Castiel needed him to believe. For a long moment he was silent, studying Sam's expression in the play of light and shadow, the Christmas lights soft on his face now as the tracks of saltwater slowly dissipated from his skin; then Castiel tipped his head to one side and lowered his hand slowly until it covered the one resting in Sam's lap. Sam's fist sprang open beneath his and the angel hooked the gaps between their fingers together. Then he tugged Sam's hand gently up and over his shoulder, into the space Sam had searched with such desperate fingers, words of distance on his lips. He rested the flat of Sam's wrist against his shoulder and slid his own hand down to settle at Sam's elbow, looking up into puzzled hazel eyes.

"I will never be far from you, Sam," Castiel promised, squeezing his arm lightly. Then he closed his eyes and focused on the wings trailing from his back, and filled them with the flood of his grace, trying to manifest them not as they were but as everything Sam had ever wanted angel wings to be: warm and light and physical, God's love shining as brightly as Sam's own faithful soul, symbols of mercy instead of war—great arcs of glowing white feathers.

Castiel had never questioned what angels were. But that wasn't acceptable anymore, because he wanted to be more than just a foot soldier—he wanted to be an angel as Sam had imagined them, believed in them, entrusted himself to them for so long without a reply. Castiel wanted to be the one Sam entrusted himself to. He wanted to be worthy of that.

For a moment there was nothing, the living room silent with waiting—then there was a whirl of chimes and Sam gasped, his arm jerking under Castiel's hand. Castiel opened his eyes to find the living room awash with light and soft movement, the bulbs on the Christmas tree glowing brighter and the snow swirling inside the glass of every single snowglobe, snatches of their songs lilting for a moment through the half-darkness—and Sam staring at him, breathless, his lips parted and his hazel eyes wide in an expression of unabashed wonder. Sam stretched out his fingers and then curled them softly, and Castiel felt those callused fingertips stroking the curve of his wing, sending a shiver all the way down his spine at that astonished touch, the impossible collision of corporeal and incorporeal things. Even manifested, his wings were still invisible except for their shadows, the barest intimation of movement on the wall behind the couch—but that didn't stop Sam's eyes from scouring the air over his shoulder as his lips curved into an awed smile, all trace of sadness vanishing from his face.

"Cas… that's… these are…" Sam broke off as he stared into the angel's blue eyes. Then he released the edge of Castiel's sleeve and lifted his second hand, reaching out, desperate and faithful as a child, to bury all ten of his fingers in the warmth at the angel's back. Castiel pressed his wing into the curve of Sam's palm and the tall hunter's eyes flickered closed, his eyelashes resting like snowflakes against the hollows of his cheekbones. "I can feel them," he whispered.

For an instant Castiel felt himself back in Bobby Singer's kitchen with a whispered prayer settling into his ears, the infinitely slight weight of this precious creature pressed into his shoulders. That weight was even less now, only the light pressure of Sam's forearms resting against his collarbones, but Castiel felt exceedingly closer to him with those long, callused fingers tangled in the deepest part of himself. Castiel's wings succumbed to a light shudder as Sam pressed his fingers down one at a time, if he were playing a piano in the air.

"They're so soft," Sam breathed. "And so warm. They feel like down. They're beautiful," he finished as his eyes came open again, his smile just a little shy at the corners.

Castiel did not think invisible things were allowed to be beautiful. But he wondered, suddenly, about the subjectivity of beauty—because in that moment he could not imagine anything more beautiful than dark bangs falling into hazel eyes bright with the reflection of Christmas lights, streaks of red slowly disappearing from the strong, graceful lines of Sam's face, and the feeling of reverent fingers threading through his manifested grace.

For a long moment, they stayed where they were, the last chimes of the snowglobes settling the only sound between them. Sam traced the curved base of each wing and Castiel got lost in the sensation—not just hands on his wings, but Sam's hands, the same hands that had slipped into his pocket beneath the exultation of Christmas lights, that had massaged warmth back into his cold, gray fingers, that had fidgeted with a curling silver ribbon under a spray of mistletoe. Those hands that were so hesitant, always, when they reached out for him—now moving slowly, painstakingly over his wings, as if determined to learn the shape of every feather. Everywhere Sam touched, his grace felt as if it were aflame, burning with an ache that Castiel never wanted to end, and he wondered, as he watched the rapture on Sam's face, if perhaps he were as addicted to Sam's touch as he was to the feel of the young man's skin under his fingertips. Then suddenly all of the uncertainty was back in Sam's expression, and his hands stilled along the arcs of Castiel's wings, his eyebrows drawing together. Castiel frowned.

"Sam?" he asked softly, praying he had not done something wrong again.

Sam looked down and bit his lip. When he looked up again, his eyes were complicated, hope and anxiety at war across his face. His voice was suddenly hoarse. "Cas, at the church—you know, when you…you couldn't feel the glass, right?" Castiel nodded slowly. Sam hesitated for a moment before giving a shaky exhale and stroking one hand down the smooth plane of his wing, his fingers trailing through the spaces between feathers. "Can you feel me?" he whispered.

Castiel felt his lips twist into a small smile at the sensations rippling through his wings, at the idea that those exquisite hands conducting a symphony in the folds of his grace would be so inconsequential as to be intangible. He could feel every brush of those tentative fingers so deeply he wondered if it was really his wings Sam were mapping, or if he'd worked his long, soft fingers around his heart, every press of his thumbs hastening the beats. Sam's hands felt like candle flame, warm with faith and prayer and reverence, and Castiel thought those fingerprints might be burned into his wings for eternity like shining, rippling scars—scars he would be honored to carry. He tightened his hand around the hunter's elbow.

"Yes, Sam," he said. "I can feel you."

He curled the tip of one wing around until the pinion could brush Sam's cheek; Sam jumped at the sudden contact, but then his shoulders relaxed and he leaned into the touch, resting his head against the curve. Castiel's breath caught as he felt the tip of Sam's nose graze his feathers.

"Sam," he began. He hesitated as those hazel eyes found his again, bright with the glimmer of Christmas tree lights. His wing flickered against the line of Sam's jaw. "No human has ever touched these wings," Castiel said, "and no other human ever will. Because they are…" The angel broke off, struggling with the words, and wondering why the things he wanted to say to Sam were always so complicated. In the end he had no choice but to give the young man the only words he had, and he lifted one hand, feeling the soft tickle of every strand as he tucked a wisp of hair gently behind Sam's ear. "They are for you, Sam," he finished, his hand falling back into his lap.

For one moment, as Sam stared back at him without speaking, he was concerned that he had said the wrong thing. But all of his anxiety vanished as Sam's lips curved up into a smile—because the expression on Sam's face was bliss, and he had never seen a smile so beautiful. Sam surged forward and wrapped his arms around Castiel, burying his face in the angel's shoulder, and Castiel struggled to breathe, his heartbeat stuttering under the crash of the sudden embrace—then he pulled Sam into him with everything he had, one hand wound into his hair, the other arm locked around the arc of his back, his wings sweeping forward to engulf this fragile, beautiful thing that was trying to fold into him again. Sam's breath hitched against his neck as the wings closed around him; Castiel just pulled him closer, threading gentle fingers through his hair. Tangled together like this, he could feel Sam's soul pulsing against him—one tiny human soul, so impossibly breakable, but so bright within the folds of his grace, shining like a distant star. He had never been more certain what his wings were meant for.

Sam laughed against his shoulder and then turned his face up, stroking his fingers softly through the furl of feathers along his back. "I guess I'm lucky that you keep catching me, Cas," he whispered. "Because I just keep falling, over and over."

Castiel was not certain he understood. All of the falling was long over. All the same he brushed his hand through Sam's hair, his fingertips lingering on the warm curve of his neck. "Always, Sam," he promised.

Sam's smile told him he had missed something again. It seemed to be all right this time, from the way Sam laughed once before he tucked himself against the angel's shoulder, nuzzling his face into the soft white collar. Castiel closed his eyes and listened to Sam's heartbeat—just one among billions, but so precious, the most beautiful sound in the world. He could have heard them all if he had chosen to, every human heart beating just like this, the pulse of the very earth; but he only wanted to listen to one, Sam's heart beating so close to him, proof of the miracle of one single existence. He wanted to listen to that sound forever.

Sam had melted into him, the lines of his body soft with surrender. Only his fingers were still moving, trailing through his wings as through still water. "Can we stay like this?" Sam asked, the question more vibration than sound against his skin. Castiel pressed his cheek to the top of Sam's head and watched his breath ruffle the soft hairs along his crown.

"For as long as you wish," he murmured in return. Sam sighed and Castiel felt it in his bones.

Outside, the snow had started to fall again; the window behind the Christmas tree was fogged, and its lights glowed twice as brightly in the milky glass, a scatter of clouded stars brought down to earth. On the tree, Sam's ornaments had tipped together, the snowman and the strange conical figure pressed into each other as far as the constraints of their forms allowed. Castiel wondered if his wings had done that. For a moment he watched the snow coming down beyond the windows, the shimmer of its reflection in the glass of all the snowglobes, as if they had been shaken by invisible hands—then he closed his eyes and folded himself around Sam, focusing his attention on the warmth in his chest. Because this was a moment, one he would hold in his mind for the rest of eternity, and never allow to pass him by. Castiel brushed his lips over Sam's hair. He was drifting off now, his head growing heavy on the angel's shoulder, and Castiel held him as gently as he could, and treasured every breath in and out of infinitely fragile lungs.

In the sky above them, angels were singing, summoning him back to Heaven, but Castiel didn't move, didn't even consider it. He had promised to stay for Christmas, after all, and he had a few hours left. A few hours could be an eternity.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't shoot me - there wasn't a kiss in this story in the end, but there will be one in the next story, the fourteenth story in the Other Guardian 'verse. It will be posted Dec. 31st, the last story in this special first year for Sam and Cas, though certainly not the last story I'll be writing for Cas and Sam. Thanks for reading my long Christmas story, and I hope everyone enjoyed it.


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